


The Night of the Ravell'd Sleeve

by Wanderer



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to Taliesin, whose what-if started me writing this, and for kicking it around with me. : )</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Night of the Ravell'd Sleeve

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Taliesin, whose what-if started me writing this, and for kicking it around with me. : )

Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,  
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,  
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,  
Chief nourisher in life’s feast –  
Shakespeare, MacBeth

The Night of the Ravell’d Sleave  
By Wanderer

Artie watched himself in the mirror while he rubbed greasepaint off of his cheeks with one of the soft old cotton rags he kept in his dressing room. He’d lit a lamp when he came in, but it only illuminated his dressing table. The corners of his room were lost in shadows. His unguarded eyes looked very dark, and a little sad.  
“You need to get out more,” he told his reflection wryly.  
It’d begun snowing just before his performance, and now that he’d changed out of his costume, he could feel the chill. He’d thrown an old robe on over his clothes, partly to protect them while he removed his makeup, and partly for the extra warmth; but it didn’t seem to help much. His dressing room was unheated, and in the depths of winter it got decidedly chilly. He told himself that was why he shivered, looking at his own reflection. Not because there were ghosts in his eyes.  
Still… he’d dreamed of the train last night. Dreamt of leaving the Wanderer for the last time, in the pearly light of a summer dawn. He’d dreamed of leaving Jim, and woke with old grief heavy in his heart. He dreamed of that often. Far too often for his peace of mind.  
It was as if a part of him was forever caught in that moment; forever reliving it.  
Idiot.  
He shut his eyes briefly, as if doing so could banish the painful memory. It did, at least, help him push it aside for the moment. When he opened his eyes, he was firmly focused on the present again.  
He smiled a little to himself, thinking of the performance he’d just finished. His “melancholy Dane” had gone over very well. The audience’s standing ovation still echoed in his mind, a pleasant wash of sound. He felt a sense of pride in that, at least. Applause never grew old to an actor. But all he wanted now was to get changed and escape the opera house so he could warm up. Preferably before any of his fellow actors came by and asked him to join them for their customary round of post-performance drinks.  
He just wasn’t in the mood tonight; not for company, anyway. He was looking forward to indulging in some fine brandy, though. He just wanted to drink it alone. To be honest, he rarely felt sociable lately -- or warm. He’d never liked winter, and the last two had seemed the coldest of his life.  
Was he getting old?  
No, you’re getting maudlin, he told himself harshly. His age wasn’t the problem.  
The problem was—  
Better left alone, he told himself wearily. No sense worrying at something that had no solution. If there was one, he’d’ve found it by now. He’d just hoped that by now, the damn dreams would’ve stopped; and the headaches that often seemed to linger after them. He’d had a dull one all day. He rubbed at his forehead.  
Ah well…  
He tried to think of happier things. It was December 15th. Christmas was coming, and he always used to love the holiday. But the 25th of December wasn’t really cause for cheer anymore. This would be the second Christmas in a row that he’d spend entirely alone.  
He rubbed at the paint on his face absently, shaking his head at his self-pitying turn of thought. Why should that matter? It’d been his choice, after all. Why was he being so sentimental, feeling so sorry for himself? He had a roof over his head, plenty to eat, fine clothes, plenty of money and work that he liked. He’d been through much worse.  
Maybe living with Jim, hard as it had been in some ways, had spoiled him in others. All those years, he’d never had to be alone unless he chose to.  
He hadn’t chosen to be alone last Christmas. He’d just been relatively new in town then, and had no friends yet. This year, things were different. He had several – well, he wasn’t sure he’d call them good friends, but pleasant drinking companions at least, among the actors he worked with. And he counted Mary Gilbert, a pretty young actress who’d recently joined their company, as a real friend. Mary was playing the “Ophelia” to his Hamlet now, and doing a damn fine job of it, too. She was lovely, vivacious and kind, and she’d invited him to her family’s home for Christmas. In the past, he’d’ve eagerly accepted an invitation like that, from such a pretty young woman. But Mary was, as yet, an innocent, which Artie found charming and had no intention of spoiling. However, that would necessarily limit their interactions to mere politeness. And somehow, the thought of spending the day making polite conversation with Mary and her family, who were strangers to him, just made him weary. So though he genuinely liked the girl, he’d declined her invitation as kindly as he could.  
Last year, he’d spent Christmas Day holed up in his rooms. It’d been bitterly cold, and he’d been glad of his fireplace. So while most of the population of Denver spent half the day shivering in church, he’d read comfortably by his fire for awhile, then played chess with an imaginary opponent. Finally, late in the afternoon, he’d played his violin for several hours. Once night fell, he’d started drinking steadily, and kept it up until he passed out on his bed.  
It was possible he’d do something similar this year. Why drinking himself into a stupor on Christmas somehow seemed more appealing than spending the holiday with a pretty woman, was something he didn’t care to examine closely. Nor did he want to think much about the fact that though he’d always been a sociable man, he seemed to have more drinking buddies than real friends these days.  
Just then, a knock sounded at his dressing room door. Artie started, jolted out of his musings. He listened, in case it was one of his fellow actors looking for a drinking companion, but no one hailed him. Must be a theater patron then. He scowled. Disguising his voice, he yelled, “Sorry, Mr. Gordon’s not here!” He shook his head. The theater employed a young man to keep patrons from bothering the actors in their dressing rooms backstage. Where the devil had Tim gotten to? Artie only had his makeup half off – hell, he’d barely gotten out of his costume and into his regular clothes -- and already someone was at his door. He rubbed harder at the greasepaint on his jaw, trying to finish quickly, hoping he’d gotten rid of whoever it was.  
The knock came again, louder this time.  
“Damn it!” Artie muttered. Still no Tim; and clearly, whoever was at his door wasn’t going to give up until he answered. Putting down his rag, he rose reluctantly, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him. He’d been looking forward to warming up with a glass of brandy in the saloon down the street, as soon as he’d tidied himself up. But thanks to some stage door Johnny, it seemed he was going to be delayed. Not for long though, Artie promised himself, heading to the door with a frown. He’d get rid of the interloper forthwith, whoever he was.  
He’d only made it halfway to the door when it suddenly swung open. A man stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. “Hi Artie. Thought I recognized your voice,” he said lightly.  
Artie froze.  
The man was young, brown-haired, blue-eyed and strikingly handsome. For Artie, he was pain and pleasure and the price of loneliness, all in one.  
Jim.  
For a moment Artie’s voice, trained though it was, failed him. Now he knew why Tim hadn’t showed up. James West stood before him, dressed to the nines as usual, as cocky and confident as ever, a cool smile curving his mouth.  
Once, Artie would’ve rushed to greet Jim. Smiled, shook his hand, and maybe even hugged him. He still wanted -- no longed-- to reach out to Jim. The need to touch him burned through him like a fever. But as shock, anger and something even more dangerous rushed through him, he just wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss the man, or strike him. He clenched his hands into fists instead, to contain his warring impulses.  
What the hell are you doing here? was all Artie could think. Had some Secret Service case brought Jim to Denver? No. Even that wouldn’t explain why Jim had sought him out.  
Jim had sworn he never wanted to see Artie again. He’d told Artie to get the hell away from him and never come back; and meant it. Artie hadn’t seen him since, and though it felt like an eternity, he realized it’d actually only been a year and a half. It was almost Christmas now, but it’d been high summer of last year when –  
Artie shied away from those memories, even now. Revisiting them always felt like getting stabbed in an unhealed wound. Still, he thought ruefully, I should’ve known. Who else do I know who’s impatient enough to get Tim out of the way so he can barge in like this? He spared a brief thought for Tim. He was rather fond of the lad. He hoped Jim had tempted him away from his door with a bribe, rather than resorting to more painful measures.  
“West,” he said hoarsely at last. He hadn’t used that name in so long, it felt rusty on his tongue.  
Something tightened around Jim’s eyes at that, and his chin came up a little, almost as if Artie had hit him. “You used to call me Jim.”  
Artie forced himself not to respond. Still, Jim’s reply was like an arrow to his heart. I used to call you ‘James my boy’, he thought, lacerated by the memory. The more so because he wasn’t sure just what Jim had meant by that. From someone else, it might’ve been a sentimental kind of plea meant to soften him, to remind him of a time when they’d been close. But this was Jim. He’d never been soft, had never needed anyone else to be, and he never pleaded for anything, either. Not even when he was bound hand and foot and held captive by his enemies.  
Is that what we are now? Artie wondered.  
He wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty felt like another arrow through him. Once, they’d been the best of friends. Once—  
Stop it, he warned himself. Sentimentality was a trap he couldn’t afford to fall into. Not now. They’d ceased being friends, so Jim’s sudden, unexpected visit wasn’t necessarily a good thing. He had to be wary, careful. He didn’t know what this was about yet. What Jim was up to. Was it possible that the Secret Service wanted him back, after all this time? Had they sent Jim to ask him to return?  
But that would mean –  
No. That was impossible, given what’d happened. Surely Jim had told them--? Then again, if Jim had, they’d’ve sent someone after Artie long ago. Artie’s head whirled. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay on guard.  
But it wasn’t easy to do so, or to keep his distance. Partly because it just felt strange, being at odds with Jim; and partly because his instincts kept urging him to touch Jim and make sure he was real, and not just another dream he’d conjured up out of thin air and too many nights spent sleepless and alone.  
But a smart man knows his own weaknesses; and Jim had been one of Artie’s since the day they’d met. He was used to repression where Jim was concerned; and he’d long ago learned what an effective weapon silence could be. So he didn’t speak, didn’t move. He just waited, knowing Jim’s impatience would force him to speak first. Then maybe he’d find out why Jim was here.  
Sure enough, Jim soon lifted an eyebrow at him. “What’s the matter, Artie? Cat got your tongue?”  
Artie swallowed. He’d expected impatience, maybe even frustration in response to his cold silence, not – that. Not Jim’s slight, fond smile or gentle teasing. That was achingly familiar, and deeply missed. Artie forced himself not to think it signaled affection, as it used to.  
“Hardly!” he snapped. He felt dazzled, off kilter, and he didn’t like it - wanted Jim to see it even less. “What did you do with Tim?”  
Jim’s smile just widened. “He’s fine. He just had to go run a little errand.”  
Artie glared at him. Damn Jim! He seemed so totally at ease, so confident of his reception, as usual, that it made him angry. What the hell was he doing here? He’d done God only knew what to poor Tim, and burst in on him without any warning, without so much as a by-your-leave after so long… How dare he?  
He opened his mouth to snarl, but looking at Jim, he shut it suddenly. I never thought I’d see you again.  
The thought, and the longing wrapped around it, derailed his anger. But the grief that took its place bit deep.  
He swallowed hard, wondering if they might’ve been better off if they’d never laid eyes on each other again. For a moment, he considered showing Jim the door. He rejected the idea quickly though. If Jim didn’t want to go, he might cause an unholy row; and that could cause trouble for him. He’d worked hard to get top billing at the Denver Opera House, after all. It’d be a shame to lose it over Jim.  
He’d lost enough already, over Jim.  
“Why are you here?” he asked, relieved that he sounded fairly calm. His training as an actor helped. Maybe if he could think of this awkward scene as nothing more than a role he was playing, he could even stay calm. Maybe…  
Jim shrugged. “I’ve always liked Denver,” he said carelessly.  
Answered like a true Secret Service agent, Artie thought, resenting it more than a little. It was a way of speaking they’d both mastered, as spies: a little truth to disguise evasion. He knew that Jim did, in fact, like Denver; but that didn’t explain what he was doing here, in Artie’s dressing room. And that same familiarity with his partner told Artie that Jim’s lightness, his casual air was a mask. Jim’s eyes told the truth. Under cover of his careless smiles, they watched him intently.  
Artie’s answering smile was crooked. “Sure you have.”  
He’d almost forgotten how it felt, being torn in half like this. One half angry and hurt, the other with feelings so deep they seemed fathomless. Like everything in his world was both deeply right and painfully wrong, all at once. He’d grown used to feeling nearly numb these past few years, except when he was onstage.  
He’d never felt numb around Jim.  
After such a long time apart, it almost hurt to look at Jim. Yet he couldn’t stop. He stared, mesmerized in spite of himself. James was as gorgeous as ever. His dark brown hair was still as thick and shiny, his jaw as square, and his light, changeable blue eyes as piercing as Artie remembered. And despite his casual manner, Jim still exuded an air of danger, as palpable as the touch of a blade to Artie’s knowing eyes. When Jim smiled and prowled closer, his eyes glittering in the lamp light, Artie was reminded of a wolf stalking his prey; albeit a very well-dressed one.  
Jim had always moved silently, with a dancer’s grace. That hadn’t changed. But Artie suddenly realized that something had…  
He frowned slightly. Jim looked just the same, smiled just the same, and moved as he always had. Yet something about him was different. Artie had always had a keen ability to read others, and his years as a soldier and then a Secret Service agent had honed it to near perfection. He told himself that some changes in his former partner were to be expected. He hadn’t seen Jim in a very long time. Still…  
He studied Jim, trying to figure out just how he’d changed, and why he’d suddenly, mysteriously appeared at his door. He found no answers in Jim’s face, but that wasn’t unusual. When he chose to be, Jim had always been difficult to read, even for him. He realized belatedly that he wasn’t being very polite. He hadn’t even offered to take Jim’s coat, or have him sit down. Then again, Jim had burst in without an invitation, so he supposed they were even on that score. Besides, he still hadn’t decided yet if he meant to hear Jim out or not.  
It was a question of pain. Would it hurt more if he made Jim leave, or let him stay?  
For the moment, curiosity made Artie lenient. He really did want to know why Jim had come.  
“Come on in then, West. Make yourself at home,” he said ironically. For Jim was already in his dressing room, and other than Artie’s own chair, there was nowhere for him to sit.  
“Thanks.” Jim’s amused smile acknowledged all that, and told Artie how little he cared.  
But it told him nothing else; and since Jim said nothing more, Artie studied him even more closely. West wore a fashionable black hat and matching greatcoat that set off the width of his shoulders, and a tailored blue suit underneath it that Artie thought he recognized. It’d been his favorite of Jim’s suits, because it made the blue of his eyes so vivid. He noted that Jim must’ve been indoors for at least an hour, for his hat and coat were dry and unsullied by snow.  
An odd thought crossed his mind. Had Jim been inside the theater that whole time? Was his coat dry because he’d been in the audience just now, watching him? Had Jim actually come to see him play “Hamlet”?  
No. Artie throttled his brief spark of hope mercilessly. Despite his profession, he’d always been a realist. Why in the world would Jim come here to see him act? Jim had told him to get out, after all. Out of the train which had been their home, and out of his life forever. He’d always had a much more rigid sense of honor and chivalry than Artie, and Artie had violated that by what he’d done. He’d known from the start that Jim would never forgive him for it, if he ever found out. He’d just been unable to let that stop him.  
He’d never meant for Jim to discover what he’d done, of course. He’d taken considerable pains to ensure that he wouldn’t. But an unexpected twist of fate had worked against him. Though he’d worn a disguise and told no one where he was really going, a sharp-eyed fellow Secret Service agent who knew him had seen him near the scene of the “accident”, just a few days before it happened; and then casually mentioned it to Jim. It wouldn’t have been so damning, except that Artie had already told Jim he was going somewhere else on furlough. When Jim realized that Artie had lied about where he was going, of course he’d wondered why. And when Jim saw a wreck reported there in the newspaper a few days later, he’d quickly put two and two together. He’d learned just enough to convince him of Artie’s guilt, though he’d had no proof of it. Artie had made certain no one would. He’d been fond of his life back then, and unwilling to hang for arranging something that was, after all, for the public good.  
The hell of it was, Jim knew him so well, he hadn’t needed proof. Once he’d learned Artie was in the area and that he’d lied about it, he’d seen Artie’s clever brain behind the “accident”. He’d guessed that it wasn’t what it seemed, but a cleverly arranged crime. And when Jim had confronted him about it, once Artie realized Jim wasn’t going to let it go, he’d told Jim the truth. Jim had been livid, more furious than Artie had ever seen him. All over that – that madman.  
Fury and grief twisted inside him.  
He hadn’t wanted to do it. Despite what Jim thought, he did have morals and standards, which he’d held to for as long as he could. He’d stayed his hand for years, despite the danger. In the end, he’d just had no choice. No choice at all. But there’d been no way to convince Jim of that, when all hell broke loose in the wake of it. Now, seeing Jim again so unexpectedly, he knew that in spite of everything, if he had the same choice to make today, he’d do it all over again.  
There’d never been another man like Jim. There never would be -- not for him, at any rate. He’d always known that. Sadly, society’s rules (and Jim’s own nature) prevented Artie from ever telling Jim that, or explaining the real reason why he’d arranged to have a man killed. He’d confessed to it all right, when Jim confronted him. But he’d only been partially truthful about his motives for it.  
He’d never told a soul that particular truth. If he’d been a religious man, he supposed he might’ve confessed his sin. Since he wasn’t, and he’d never seen his bent as a sin either, no one else, not even Jim, really knew why he’d done it; and the pain of that day had never truly left him.  
He realized he’d been silent for a long time, just staring at Jim. Anger flickered deep inside him again. How dare Jim come here and smile and call him “Artie” again, as if none of it had ever happened?  
“What do you want, West?” He sounded as raw as he felt.  
“Call me Jim,” his old partner said stubbornly. It wasn’t a request.  
Artie shook his head. He wasn’t about to take orders, or grow sentimental either. “No. You called me a lot of things when last we met, West,” he said coldly. “None of them pleasant.”  
For the first time, Jim’s perfect confidence faltered and he looked away. “True enough,” he said finally in a low voice. When he looked up again, his light, charming, false smile had fallen away, and he asked quietly, “How have you been?”  
Jim’s eyes searched Artie’s as if he really meant it. Artie looked away, taken off guard by the question, yet unsure if his ex-partner was as sincere as he seemed. Though Jim was no actor, he hadn’t become the top agent in the Secret Service without learning a thing or two about it.  
“Well enough,” Artie answered wryly, after a moment. There were many other things he could’ve said, most more truthful, but he wasn’t sure Jim cared enough about him any longer to want the truth. He didn’t bother mentioning that he’d taken up acting again since he’d left. No point stating the obvious. Even if Jim hadn’t been part of the audience earlier, he couldn’t have found Artie here at the Opera House without knowing that already.  
They paused again, still studying each other. Artie realized, this felt oddly like a chess game. Pawns had just been cautiously advanced, but bigger, bolder moves would have to wait till both sides had a better sense of the stakes of the game being played here. He was fairly sure there was one. For one thing, Jim had always loved them, and played them often in his dealings with women. While Artie hated to think that he might’ve been reduced to the status of a woman in Jim’s eyes, someone to be toyed with, he knew it was possible. Jim had made it clear before he left, that he despised him for what he’d done. It was also telling that he still hadn’t explained the reason for his visit. If Jim had no ulterior motives for it, he’d’ve come straight to the point of it right away.  
Jim seemed disinclined to break the silence that’d fallen between them again, so Artie let it stretch out. He was curious to see what Jim’s next move would be.  
While he waited, he looked Jim over. He’d wondered so often how he was since they’d parted. Oh, he’d followed traces of his exploits in the papers, of course. But the Secret Service had gotten smarter about not releasing much to reporters these days, regarding their agents’ activities. So Artie had had just occasional scraps of news about Jim to go on. Merely knowing that Jim was alive, comforting though that was, had always left him hungry for more information.  
Now that James stood before him, in the too, too solid flesh as it were, Artie feasted his eyes. Jim looked good; marvelous, really. His eyes were still as keen and bright as a hawk’s, his body still as muscular and fit as ever. Artie noticed a tiny new scar under the right side of Jim’s jaw, and a few more on his knuckles than he remembered. Given Jim’s penchant for fighting, that wasn’t surprising. Still, his hands itched to trace the new ones, learn their shapes…  
Force of habit, he told himself. He’d doctored Jim so many times after fights. He tried hard not to remember how it had felt to touch him, but a memory flitted through his mind before he could stop it. Jim, perched on Artie’s lab table in the Wanderer late one night years ago, while Artie gently washed away blood that’d poured from a knife wound in his shoulder. Jim’s skin had been so warm, and his bared torso so perfectly muscled that Artie had been achingly aroused. It’d taken all his concentration to keep his hands from straying as he moved a cloth gently over Jim’s warm, sun-bronzed chest. “James my boy,” he’d sighed, to distract himself. “You’re a lot of trouble…”  
Despite his wound, Jim had grinned at him. A big, cocky smile, so deliciously unrepentant that Artie had grinned back before he could stop himself.  
He shook his head to banish the memory, trying to school his expression so his pain wouldn’t show. Useless to think of things like that now. Some things hadn’t changed, though -- Jim was still trouble personified. Had been then, always would be. And he’d always been drawn to him, like a moth to flame.  
Still, at least Jim didn’t seem to have suffered any major damage in the time they’d been apart. In fact, he appeared to have thrived in Artie’s absence.  
Odd, how that was both a huge relief and a bit of a blow to him. It wasn’t a surprise, though – never that. The truth was, James West didn’t need him. Jim didn’t need anyone. Never had, never would. Artie almost envied him that. He’d lost that kind of independence when he’d met Jim.  
And now…  
Small wonder that he’d gone back to acting again after he’d left Jim. He’d drifted through his own life like an actor playing a part, putting more energy into his roles onstage than he did into his private life. Without Jim, counterfeiting emotion seemed easier than truly feeling it. He’d felt gray inside, dull, like his senses were muffled in cotton. But as soon as Jim had walked into his dressing room, he’d been overcome with sensations. Heat washed over his skin, the hair on the back of his neck lifted, his heartbeat and his breathing got faster. The dull headache that’d plagued him since he woke disappeared, burned away like morning mist in the heat of the sun. A storm of emotions beat against his ribcage, threatening his control. He remembered how it felt to have one man at the center of his existence, one man whose well-being meant everything -- more than Artie’s own life. All because Jim was here. How was that possible, he wondered, when his heart felt sliced to ribbons? How could one man evoke such joy, such desire and such pain, all at once?  
He fairly ached, seeing Jim again. Yet he felt perversely angry that Jim could still make him feel so much. Feel anything at all, after…  
Artie looked away, feeling half-sick at the memories that filled his mind, unbidden.  
Their final confrontation had happened on the Wanderer. He’d come back to the train late one hot afternoon in June, two summers ago, to find Jim sitting on the couch in the parlor car with a newspaper on his lap, and a hard look of suspicion on his face. “Seems there was an accident on a train a few days ago, near Houston,” he’d said.  
The words themselves were innocuous enough. The look on Jim’s face wasn’t. He was angry about something. It crackled in his blue eyes like summer lightning.  
“Yes, I think I heard something about that.” Artie had fought to sound calm and unconcerned, but if the look on Jim’s face hadn’t been enough to make him wary, his mention of a train accident in Houston would have. He’d already seen the paper, he’d just hoped Jim hadn’t. He’d hung his hat casually and sauntered past Jim, not hurrying, but hoping against hope that he could disappear into his lab before Jim had a chance to say anything more on the subject. He’d hoped that Jim would let it go.  
But Jim had been too fast for him. It seemed he had no intention of letting any of it go. “Funny, but only one car derailed,” he went on. Artie kept walking. Jim paused then, for a long moment – just long enough for Artie to gain the hallway leading to his lab. Just long enough for him to dare hope that might be the last of it.  
Then Jim had pounced. “You’ll never guess who was in it.”  
Artie’s heart had begun to hammer. Jim knew. Somehow, he knew. “Who?” he’d asked.  
“Just two people. It was a private car. But then I think you already know that. Don’t you, Artie.”  
Artie hadn’t missed the fact that Jim wasn’t asking questions, he was making statements – or the sudden coldness in his voice. His heart contracted with dread, but he turned with only a slight frown. Calling on all his acting skills to save him, still holding onto a faint hope that he could brazen it out, he cocked his head curiously. “What’re you talking about, Jim? How would I know?”  
“I’m talking about a train wreck near Houston. One man survived it, but the other was killed. Everyone seems to think it was just an accident. I’m not so sure.”  
“Why is that?” was all he could get out.  
Jim just looked grim. “Because Jeremy Pike saw you there, just before it happened. That’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? Funny how you never told me you’d been to Houston recently. You said you were going to San Antonio on your furlough. Don’t you think that’s funny, Artie?”  
Don’t you think that’s funny, Artie?  
Recalling those words, even after over a year had passed, still twisted Artie up inside. He’d never heard anything less funny in his life.  
Damn Jeremy Pike to Hell, he’d thought savagely. He hadn’t seen Jeremy in Houston that day, but apparently Jeremy had seen him. He could only assume that Pike must’ve been passing through town, probably on Secret Service business. When he’d seen Artie there in disguise, Jeremy must’ve thought Artie was on a Secret Service mission of his own. So Pike had followed protocol, exercised caution and hadn’t tried to approach him. But Pike had mentioned it to Jim when they’d met soon afterwards. God damn it!  
All of Artie’s careful planning, undone by one man’s unexpected presence in Houston that day. By one chance sighting he’d had no way of anticipating, and one chance mention of it to the one man who could grasp its significance. And how the hell had Pike managed to see through his disguise, anyway?  
“All right. Out with it, Jim,” he’d said, dropping all pretence. “Just what are you getting at?”  
Jim had thrown down the paper then, and surged to his feet, his eyes filled with rage. “Murder! And I think you did it. Or arranged to have it done.”  
“That’s a helluva thing to say!”  
Jim had cocked his head, his eyes going stone cold. “It’s a hell of a thing to do,” he’d snarled.  
Just for a moment, utter silence had fallen between them. They’d never fought like that before, in all their years as partners. Artie saw Jim’s fists clenching unconsciously. He looked like he could barely contain his rage, and Artie had never felt so cornered. The fact that it was Jim who’d backed him into it made him feel ill.  
Jim’s fists opened and closed at his sides as his eyes searched Artie’s. His voice was low and strained when he asked, “Did you do it, Artie?”  
The relief that’d filled Artie when he’d read that same newspaper article earlier drained away, replaced by the sick certainty that he’d just lost everything. He’d paused for just a moment before he answered. But there was no use denying it any longer. He could see his doom written in the hard, unrelenting rage in Jim’s blue eyes. Jim already believed he was guilty. Nothing he could say would change that. Besides, he’d already made up his mind that if worst came to worst, he’d tell Jim the truth. Despite what Jim now believed, he did have a moral code.  
“And what if I did,” he’d said quietly, bracing himself. “How many times has he tried to kill thousands of people?” Not to mention you, he thought. He knew better than to say it out loud, though. That fact would be meaningless to Jim.  
But he knew exactly how many times Jim had nearly been killed. He’d been keeping count.  
Jim, of course, hadn’t cared for his motive. He’d exploded. He’d stalked up and down the parlor car, yelling. And when he’d finished calling Artie every name he could think of, he’d moved on to threats. “You lying, deceitful bastard! I ought to go to the Sheriff and turn you in!” he’d roared, red-faced. “Hell, I should telegraph Washington!”  
“Go on then. Do it!” Artie had snarled back. “Tell President Grant, for all I care! I won’t stop you.”  
From the moment he’d first conceived his plan, Artie had been prepared for the grim possibility that Jim would turn him in if he ever found out about it. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that, had done all he could do prevent it, but it was difficult to pull off a perfect crime. He knew that better than most, having spent the last five years of his life tracking criminals down. He’d done his best, but like many a law-breaker before him, he’d been undone by events no one could’ve anticipated, that were beyond his control. He had been able to predict Jim’s reaction precisely, though. He knew James West, better than anyone else ever had, ever would. He’d known just how Jim would react, what his sense of honor would demand that he do, if he ever learned the truth.  
He’d actually been surprised that Jim hadn’t made good on his threat to turn him over to the law. Though he’d resigned from the Secret Service and left Jim forever the day after their fight, as Jim had not so politely requested, Artie had slept with one eye open for months afterward, half expecting to wake at the cock of a Sheriff’s gun -- or worse, a bounty hunter’s. He’d made no attempt to hide, though. Once he rode away from the train, a kind of fatalism had settled over him. He hadn’t changed his name or his appearance. He’d just drifted west for about six months, gambling and waiting to see what would happen. He’d needed to know what Jim would do. But when those months passed quietly, when he saw no wanted posters with his name on them and no one came to arrest him, he’d realized -- Jim must’ve decided to spare him at least that much.  
He supposed he might’ve been grateful, if he’d been able to feel much at all by then.  
“Artie –” Jim began.  
God, but it hurt, hearing his old nickname from West’s lips again. “You can call me Mr. Gordon,” he cut in harshly. “And you can answer my question. Why are you here?”  
Jim’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “All right then. Mr. Gordon,” he gritted. “Can we just talk for a minute?”  
Artie just shrugged. “Seems we already are.”  
Jim drew in a breath at that, then shut his mouth so fast, his teeth almost clacked. Something moved under his bland expression, but Artie couldn’t tell if it was pain or anger. He refused to believe it could be anything warmer. He could sense how hard Jim was trying to be polite, to rein in his temper and get him talking. But he didn’t care. He had no intention of making it easy for him, or volunteering anything. At least not until he knew Jim’s purpose in coming here.  
He had that strange sense, again, that something about Jim was different. There was something under his calm, confident exterior that he’d never sensed before. It was more than just frustration at Artie’s less than warm welcome, but he still couldn’t guess what it was.  
Jim fell silent again, but his eyes were still fixed on Artie, moving up and down restlessly, taking in every detail of his appearance.  
His intense scrutiny made Artie vaguely uneasy. He didn’t understand it. Once, he might’ve put it down to their long separation. But since that had been Jim’s idea, it hardly seemed likely that his ex-partner was gazing fondly at him now. Perhaps, he thought darkly, Jim was just privately comparing his own handsome attire with Artie’s dishevelment instead, and laughing to himself at the contrast.  
He was keenly aware that while Jim was the very picture of sartorial elegance, his own face still bore traces of greasepaint. His shirt was old, rumpled and spotted with flecks of makeup. Looking down, he saw that it had gotten so thin with repeated washing that one sleeve had a couple of small holes in it. Even the robe he’d flung on over nondescript pants and slippers was rather old. Hell, he was older himself. Jim looked as handsome as ever, but Artie had a few more grey hairs at his temples now, than he’d had when they’d parted.  
Not that he’d give Jim the satisfaction of acknowledging any of that. Though he loved fine clothes as much as Jim, Artie had never measured his own worth in terms of money or the quality of his apparel. He wasn’t so shallow as that. Neither was Jim. At least, not the James West he’d once known. He shrugged mentally. He was making good money lately, and he had better clothes too; he just didn’t wear them to the Opera House. Greasepaint was hell on fine clothes. But since Jim had, with characteristic impatience, barged in on him at an awkward moment, on his head be the consequences. Jim would have to deal with him as he was -- raveled sleeve, old clothes, greasepaint and all.  
It was strange, though. Jim had taken the trouble to come here, yet now that he had, he seemed to have little to say. He just stood there watching him, and fingering his hat with an enigmatic look. Artie wondered how far Jim had traveled to get here; and if he would ever tell him why.  
He realized, he wasn’t behaving very suavely himself. Jim had been there for some time now, yet Artie was still staring mutely, raptly at him. Stop it, he told himself harshly. He could see that Jim was fine. More than fine. He looked the perfect picture of health, as always. It would have to be enough.  
“Well? If you’ve got something to say, say it,” he ordered brusquely, tearing his eyes away at last as he pretended to brush something off his dressing gown’s lapel. “I’m busy. I’m meeting friends soon.” It was a lie, but Jim had no way of knowing it. It served other purposes, too. It told Jim that he wasn’t alone here, that he’d made other friends in his absence. But most of all, the order was a deliberate provocation.  
Jim’s head came up at that, and for an instant, something dark flickered in his eyes. Artie was careful not to smile. It hadn’t been too difficult, figuring out how to poke at Jim. Barking an order at him was just about guaranteed to make him angry. Still, it was oddly satisfying seeing that it had.  
“All right, A-- I mean, Mr. Gordon,” Jim said tightly. “I just – I wanted to…” But once again, words seemed to fail him. His mouth twisted unhappily. He set his jaw and looked down, turning his hat restlessly in his hands. Artie noticed that Jim was holding it so tightly that his fingers were almost white; and he looked oddly pale.  
“You wanted to what?” he grated, his frustration with Jim’s silence mounting.  
Jim shot him a look. His lips thinned and he shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”  
Artie sighed, not trying to hide his disappointment. Whatever had brought Jim here, it most definitely wasn’t nothing. For a moment, though, he regretted his own harshness. If he hadn’t snapped at Jim just then, maybe he’d’ve finally told him what he was really doing here.  
He had a growing sense that Jim’s confident, charming entrance had been a façade; as much of a performance as the Danish prince he’d just played onstage. If he hadn’t known better, he’d’ve thought Jim was nervous or worried about something. But Jim didn’t get nervous, not that Artie had ever seen. So he still had no idea why he was here, or what the hell was going on. And Jim wasn’t talking. Artie had never seen him so tongue-tied. It was puzzling, to say the least.  
When Jim didn’t seem to have anything to add, Artie finally threw up his hands in frustration. “Well. If that’s the best you can do, I’ll just finish cleaning up.”  
Turning his back on Jim, he settled back in his chair in front of his mirror, to do just that. He’d told Jim he was going to meet friends, after all. So he had to at least maintain the fiction that he had somewhere else to go shortly. Pulling his old robe tighter around him to ward off the chill, he took a rag and wiped carefully at the last remaining bits of makeup on his chin. He knew it was rude to ignore Jim so, but he didn’t care. In fact, he rather hoped Jim felt the sting. Especially since he still hadn’t explained why he’d come, the vexing bastard.  
What the devil was Jim hiding?  
He shot a frustrated glance at him in the mirror, and caught Jim staring at him intently, his blue eyes wide with some emotion Artie had never seen before. It looked almost like – like hunger, or anguish. The raw intensity of it stunned him. But when Jim caught him watching, he blanked his expression and looked away again, so quickly that Artie doubted what he’d seen.  
Still – now he was convinced that Jim was up to something, or hiding something. Maybe both. His certainty about that grew. But Jim still wasn’t talking, and his stubborn silence was driving Artie crazy. To hell with waiting for Jim to make a move, he thought, frustrated. I’ll do it. He tossed down his cotton rag and growled over his shoulder, “For God’s sake. What the hell do you want?”  
He cut himself off before he could add, Jim. Before they parted, Jim had made it crystal clear that Artie had lost the right to call his former friend Jim, James, or anything but West ever again. Some things, once said, could never be unsaid. The last time they were together, they’d said quite a few such bitter things. Artie had no desire to repeat that scene. Nor could he undo what he’d done, or Jim’s accidental discovery of it. So he couldn’t imagine why Jim was here. If he’d meant to set the law on Artie, he’d’ve done so long ago. And what else could Jim add to the furious curses, excoriations and contempt he’d already heaped upon his head? What more could Jim possibly do to him?  
Jim was silent for a minute, then Artie heard him take a step forward. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, Artemus,” he said quietly.  
He might not have, but Artie was starting to feel sorely tempted. His hand curled into a fist again at Jim’s familiar address. First Artie, and now Artemus? How dare Jim, after he’d warned him not to use his first name! The anger he’d been suppressing grew even hotter. Jim had only called him “Artemus” when he was feeling particularly fond of him. Hearing him say it now, under these circumstances, felt like a slap in the face. Jim still hadn’t given him a straight answer about why he’d come, either; and it wasn’t like him to beat around the bush like this. Jim’s inappropriate use of fond old nicknames, coupled with his maddening refusal to explain his presence, made Artie feel almost savage.  
He turned his head and curled his lip at Jim. “Really? That makes a nice change.”  
The last time they’d been in the same room, at the height of their shouting match, after Artie had dared Jim to go ahead and turn him in, Jim had knocked him to the floor with a vicious, unexpected uppercut that’d left Artie’s jaw swollen and aching for several days. Then he’d stood over Artie, red-faced and furious, and yelled, “Get out, damn you! Get out and don’t come back!”  
Artie had taken it all without a word, without replying or even trying to return the blow. He’d just dragged himself to his feet and walked silently back to his compartment, rubbing his throbbing jaw. He’d figured he’d had it coming for what he’d done -- at least from Jim’s point of view.  
But he was through being punished for that now. His temper had limits, which Jim was fast approaching. Jim had better tread lightly, this time.  
His acidly sarcastic reminder of the punch wasn’t lost on Jim. He ducked his head, a slight flush spreading across his high cheekbones. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Look, I’m sorry about that. For hitting you, I mean.”  
Artie blinked, astonished. Because Jim still remembered the blow, and because he could never, in their five years as partners, remember Jim apologizing for anything he’d done. It’d never even occurred to him that Jim might’ve come here for that. For a second, he wavered. Then he reminded himself that it was too little, too late.  
“Noted,” he said coldly, then turned away again. It wasn’t the same thing as accepting Jim’s apology, or forgiving him; and Jim was smart enough to know it. It just wasn’t that simple. Did Jim really think he could come here, tender a little apology and make things right between them again?  
Artie wiped at the greasepaint on his chin so hard that the rag chafed his skin. Things would never be right between them again. There was no “them” anymore. They weren’t partners, they weren’t even friends. There was nothing between them anymore but pain and regrets. Worse still, he knew it was his own fault. It was that, more than anything else, which kept him from throwing Jim out, despite the awkwardness of this meeting.  
It was all his fault. The fight, their broken friendship, his departure – all of it. He’d known the possible consequences, and he’d gone ahead and done it anyway. He’d rolled the dice in a desperate gamble and lost.  
He’d probably deserved never to see Jim again. So maybe he deserved this too – this coldness, this distance, this awkwardness between them. He’d always known, deep down, that he’d never have what he wanted so badly from Jim. But now he had to live with the even more bitter certainty that he’d never have even so much as his friendship, ever again.  
You’d think, after more than a year, that he’d be used to the pain. But seeing Jim again, the wounds tore at him as deeply as if they were fresh.  
Though he’d already removed the last of his makeup, he wiped at his chin again. It kept his hands busy, and gave him an excuse not to look at Jim. The blow he’d just reminded Jim of, painful though it had been, had been the least of the ones he’d taken that day two summers ago. The things Jim had said, the look of revulsion on his face…  
Christ, Artie! How could you? What kind of man are you? All those years, I thought I knew you – but I guess I never really did. You conniving, murdering bastard! You’re as bad as he was!  
Artie had never forgotten any of it. Not one word, though God knew, he’d tried. He’d withstood some savage beatings in his time, but none had hurt him as much as Jim’s words that day. He’d lost Jim’s respect, and his friendship as well, and it haunted him. He’d paid a heavy price for his actions every day since, in loneliness.  
Love gave the wound which, while I breathe, will bleede…  
The only thing that’d kept him going was the knowledge that Jim was alive, even though they were apart. He’d done his best to ensure that Jim could live to a ripe old age. He’d risked everything for that; and he couldn’t find it in him, even now, to regret protecting his ex-partner as he had.  
He looked at himself critically in the mirror again. He was a little older, he had a few more grey hairs at his temples, but he saw no major changes in himself. No real guilt on his face, or in his eyes. Then again, he hadn’t felt all that much guilt. Some, but not so much that it’d crippled him. He’d had plenty of sleepless nights after he left the Wanderer, but his bad dreams had never been about arranging the murder. In fact, after all this time, he could barely remember the face of the man he’d hired in Houston to board the train, uncouple the last car and toss a little incendiary of Artie’s own design onto the tracks to derail it. It’d always been Jim’s face that’d haunted him in the darkness. His nightmares had always been about riding away from the Wanderer and losing Jim. Like most criminals, he reflected ruefully, his deepest regret was the fact that he’d gotten caught.  
Well – maybe that wasn’t his deepest regret after all, he thought. That one was standing there staring at him. His best friend, James West.  
His former best friend, he reminded himself harshly. Being in the same room with Jim again hadn’t changed that. They were still as far apart as they’d been since that summer day when their friendship had foundered. Artie looked away from the mirror and sighed. “I don’t think we have much left to say to each other,” he said quietly, hearing the strain in his own voice. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave now. As I said, some friends are expecting me.”  
“Friends.” Jim’s voice was oddly flat, but his eyes were lit up with some emotion Artie couldn’t fathom.  
Artie shot a curious glance at him in the mirror. For a man who’d always been direct to a fault, Jim certainly seemed partial to enigmatic remarks today. If he hadn’t known better, he’d’ve said that Jim was jealous. But that was absurd. “Yes. I do have them, you know,” he said wryly.  
Jim met his gaze in the mirror and said quietly, “You always did.”  
Artie frowned and looked away, not sure how he was supposed to take that. “Not always,” he answered bitterly, remembering Jim’s blow.  
He heard Jim suck in a breath, but he didn’t answer. Artie wondered, if he looked up, would he find Jim’s fists clenched again? He sighed to himself. Maybe if he could just figure out what Jim was hiding, what was different about him now, he could unravel all the strange undercurrents in this conversation.  
Finally, he raised his eyes just enough to shoot another covert glance at Jim in the mirror. Jim didn’t notice. He’d looked away, his gaze falling a little; and in that unguarded moment, Artie was surprised again to see something like sadness, or even despair on his normally stoic face. Despite all the hardships and dangers they’d faced together, he’d never seen Jim look like that before. Was that the change he’d sensed in him? What could possibly make Jim look so utterly defeated?  
For an instant, he wavered, wanting to find out if he was right, and what’d happened to Jim. He wanted, in spite of everything, to find some way to comfort Jim too. But that very instinct reminded him that he was in danger. He still had one secret to protect; and they’d both be better off if Jim left without an inkling of it. Besides, Jim had never seemed to want or need solace from anyone. And even if by some miracle he did, it wouldn’t be Artie he turned to for it anymore. Surely there were plenty of women lined up, to fill Jim’s every need. There always had been. His mouth turned down bitterly. If he tried to offer Jim comfort now, he’d probably only receive scorn or another fist to the jaw.  
Half strangled by the force of his grief and longing, suddenly he just wanted Jim gone. He said gruffly, “My patience is wearing thin. Either tell me what you want, West, or get out. Now!”  
Jim lifted his head at Artie’s harsh dismissal. Before he could stop himself, he took a step forward and his shoulders tightened.  
Artie recognized the light of battle in his eyes. That’s more like it! he thought, with a flicker of excitement. That’s the Jim West I know. Maybe his rudeness had finally provoked Jim into telling him why he was here.  
Jim said suddenly, “I came here to get the truth. I want to know why.”  
Artie stiffened, shocked. He’d wondered what kind of game Jim was playing. He’d never expected this. Jesus. If they were playing chess, Jim would’ve just captured one of his major pieces in a surprise move. He’d thought they’d settled this a year ago, back on the train -- said everything they had to say. He was so stunned by the question that for a moment, he had no answer. “Why what?” he asked finally, lightly, to hide his uneasiness. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”  
Jim shook his head ever so slightly, but his eyes were hard. “You know what – Mr. Gordon.” He didn’t move, but the edge in his voice, the look in his eyes would’ve cowed a lesser man.  
Artie just shrugged, seemingly unruffled, but secretly trying to think of a distraction. Despite Jim’s incredible prowess as a fighter, he wasn’t afraid of him. He’d picked up a lot of dirty tricks in his life. Besides, Jim had already said that he hadn’t come here to fight with him. But he knew damn well just how badly Jim could damage him without ever lifting a finger. Jim could wound him with words alone, and he was in enough pain already. “Oh. That,” he said reluctantly at last, having failed to think of a single subject likely to divert Jim.  
Jim smiled, a bit grimly. “Yes. That.”  
Artie shrugged again, seemingly just as careless, while his heart raced. “I already told you why. That’s ancient history.”  
“I don’t think so.” Jim shook his head, and his certainty felt like the brush of doom.  
Did Jim know why he’d really done it?  
Cold shivered down Artie’s spine. Jim wouldn’t be asking him ‘why’ if he’d believed Artie’s original explanation for the murder. Which meant -- oh God. Could Jim have somehow figured out the one secret he’d kept from him, even when their friendship had ended?  
No, he told himself, fear sending his thoughts racing. No. Jim hadn’t—couldn’t--know about that. Artie had never told anyone, and he’d always been careful not to use his real name when he’d indulged himself. There was no way Jim could’ve found out. Besides -- if he had known, he’d’ve hurled even worse epithets at him that day. Jim had to be fishing for information. If he knew, he wouldn’t be asking questions. It was more likely that he’d’ve come in and hit Artie if he did, or never come here at all.  
Reassured, he thought, All I have to do is lie convincingly, and he’ll go away again; and this time, he’ll never come back.  
But something deep inside him quailed at the thought of that. Hesitated. Kept him still and silent, when he knew he had to speak.  
Artie looked down at the floor, cursing himself silently. He had to say something. Something clever, or something cutting – anything, to throw Jim off the track. But he couldn’t think of a damn thing. His mind had gone blank, and his heart beat far too fast for comfort.  
He couldn’t allow himself this kind of weakness. Sending Jim away again was all he could do; the only way to keep his secret. And what did it matter, in the end? He’d already left Jim. There was no future possible for them anymore. And he’d resigned himself to the loss, because Jim’s safety was worth the cost.  
He told himself all that, but it didn’t seem to matter. Jim had shocked him, caught him flat-footed. He’d thought all this was over. Now he couldn’t seem to find the words, or summon the energy he needed to make Jim leave.  
You have to.  
He stiffened his spine with an effort, gathering the tattered edges of his pride around him like a cloak. He’d have to be very careful indeed, if he was going to fool Jim about this. He was a gifted actor, and an even better liar; but he’d never been good at lying to Jim. He’d never wanted to, and the one time he’d been forced to, he’d failed miserably and it’d torn them apart. He’d thought they were done with that disaster. He’d believed this particular secret was safe, because he’d been so careful. But maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe the only reason Jim had never suspected that he was guilty of more than murder when they’d fought so viciously on the train that summer day, was because he’d been too shocked and angry to see past the murder itself, at the time.  
Unfortunately, Jim had had plenty of time to think since. And he’d never been stupid.  
Damn it all to Hell! Artie cursed to himself. Damn Jim, and his inability to let things go. Even if he did suspect the truth, why couldn’t he just let it be? What the hell did it matter to him why Artie had done it, anyway? He’d confessed after all, and borne the consequences without complaint. Hard as it had been, he’d left when Jim asked him to, and he’d never gone back or even tried to contact Jim since. He hadn’t even tried to hide, after he left Jim. If Jim had wanted to set the law on him, he could have. Artie would’ve gone to jail, even to the gallows if he had to, for Jim. What more did Jim want? Why did he have to come here and try to drag it all out into the open, after so long?  
Artie shoved his emotions aside. He had to keep a cool head, stay focused. Jim’s motives didn’t matter now. Jim’s new suspicions about him did, because they could lead him to the one secret Artie had left, that he’d always concealed from Jim. The problem was, he couldn’t tell Jim why he’d really done it, because that might give it away. The one thing had sprung from the other. For a moment, the irony of it caught at him. He’d confessed to setting up a murder when he had to, when Jim had confronted him about it, but this – this, he couldn’t tell Jim. This, Jim could never know.  
As if his feelings, his bent were worse than arranging to end a man’s life.  
Focus, he warned himself again. But how to approach this… He was so flustered, he could only think of one way. He’d mastered the game of poker when he was in his teens. He’d just have to bluff, and hope to God Jim believed him. He turned to face Jim again with the coldest sneer he could manage. “You already know the truth; and you didn’t thank me for telling you the first time. I’m not going to say it again, so –”  
Jim cut him off, not even bothering to hide his anger now. His blue eyes blazed with it. “That wasn’t the truth! At least, not all of it. I came to see you because I realized, you lied to me more than once that day.”  
Artie kept his outward appearance of calm with an effort. “No I didn’t. I told you why--”  
“You told me you did it because you had to, to save countless innocents. You said --”  
Despite his best intentions, Artie surged to his feet at that. “I know what I said!” He shouted it, far louder than he meant to.  
Jim fell silent, his eyes narrowing with what looked disturbingly like satisfaction.  
Damn it.  
Despite his resolve to remain cool and calm, Jim had quickly managed to provoke him. That’d been a mistake. Artie stopped and caught his breath, tried to calm his racing heart. But it wasn’t easy to stay calm, when Jim kept poking at his worst memories with a sharp stick. Artie didn’t need any reminders of their last day together. Every word, every look, every detail of it was burned into his mind like a brand. Other than the war, their fight and subsequent separation had been one of the worst things that’d ever happened to him. Even now, talking about it with Jim had the power to shake him, to break his control just when he needed it most.  
What a fool he’d been, believing for the past year and a half that the worst was over. That he had no more to lose. He’d never imagined this… That Jim would show up and want to rehash the whole hellish situation.  
Suddenly, he’d had enough. At least when he left Jim, he’d been able to ride away without being despised for his hopeless feelings, as well as what he’d done. But if Jim kept prying into this, Artie wasn’t sure he could keep him from finding out other things, as well. Things that Jim would no doubt consider even worse than the fact that he’d had a man killed for his sake. Jim’s sudden appearance here was upsetting enough; Artie’s self control couldn’t handle another interrogation, on top of it. Why the hell did Jim feel the need to come here and torture him further, anyway? Especially when all he could possibly have were suspicions at most, not facts. And Artie couldn’t imagine where Jim had even gotten those.  
“I’m through talking about this. You hear me, West? I’ve said what I had to say. There’s an end to it. Now get out!” he snarled, pointing to his door.  
Jim didn’t move, he just kept talking. “No! You said you had to do it, before he managed to kill thousands of people!” He stood his ground, his eyes boring into Artie. “And I believed you. God knows, he threatened mass murder often enough. He’d’ve done it too, if we hadn’t stopped him. But that wasn’t the real reason you had him killed, was it?”  
Artie couldn’t take anymore. He flung himself across the room at Jim before he could say another word. “Enough!” he roared.  
Jim had never really seen him furious before, or what he was capable of then. He was desperate. He had to shut Jim up – make him stop. It was all he could think. He couldn’t let him figure this out, the last and darkest of all his secrets. Hadn’t he already given Jim too many reasons to hate him?  
He barreled into Jim and shoved him hard. Jim fell back a step, surprised by his sudden rush. Artie took Jim’s arm in a ruthless grip and pulled him towards the door.  
“Artie--” Jim dug in his heels.  
Artie shook him viciously, knocking him off balance again, and kept dragging him forward. “Shut up! I said, enough!” Jim tried to shake him off, but couldn’t. Artie was vibrating with rage, his grip on Jim’s arm unbreakable.  
But even while he pulled Jim along, Jim kept talking. “That wasn’t the real reason,” he grated stubbornly. “Was it.” It was a statement, not a question; and he watched Artie with disturbing intensity, as if he were trying to see right down into his soul.  
Fury stole Artie’s breath. The goddamn stubborn bastard! Jim never knew when to quit. It was all he could do not to hit him. He pulled his door open with his free hand, then shoved Jim through it roughly, so hard that Jim hit the opposite wall.  
“You’d better leave. Now! Before you make me do something I’ll regret.”  
Jim cocked his head stubbornly. “Too late. I think I already did.”  
Artie slammed the door shut in Jim’s face. Then he locked it, just to be safe. Jesus Christ, he thought, shaken. This had begun to feel disturbingly like their last, worst fight on the train, after the murder. Worse yet, it seemed Jim had guessed the truth about his motive for it. He felt like he couldn’t get his breath. It would be one short step from there, to guessing the truth at the core of Artie himself. He could only pray that Jim hadn’t made that mental leap. He ran a shaky hand over his hair, and took a step away from the door.  
“Artie –” Jim’s voice was a bit muffled, but still audible through the thin wooden door.  
Artie couldn’t believe it. Jim had to be pressed up against the door. Would he never give up? What the hell did he have to do, to get rid of the man? He set his jaw. “Just go the hell away!” he growled.  
There was silence for a moment. Then Jim said, “I can’t, Artie. I need to know why you did it.” His voice was low, but full of a stubborn determination that Artie knew all too well.  
But he had no intention of giving in. “This is absurd! I’m not talking to you through a door,” he snarled, turning away.  
“Then just listen,” Jim said quickly, and something in his voice stopped Artie in his tracks. All at once, Jim didn’t sound angry anymore. His voice was intense, pitched to carry, but not angry. “I think I know what happened, Artie. You did it for me, didn’t you? Not for thousands of innocent people, for me.”  
Though Jim couldn’t see him, Artie shook his head blindly. “You’re wrong. No, you’re crazy.”  
“That’s the truth, isn’t it. You killed Dr. Loveless to save me!” Jim said.  
******************************************************************************  
Artie closed his eyes. Dear God. Jim knew – he knew!  
This felt like a nightmare. It seemed unreal, as well as unfair, that Jim had guessed the truth somehow, after all this time. And come to throw it in his face here, where he was already living in unhappy exile.  
He drew a deep breath that somehow didn’t manage to fill his lungs. “I told you before,” he said carefully. “I did it for the sake of humanity. Dr. Loveless was a maniac who repeatedly threatened the lives of thousands. And since no prison could hold him, it was too dangerous to let him live! It had nothing to do with you. Nothing!”  
“I think it did,” Jim retorted, relentless. “Just before Loveless was killed in that ‘accident’, you took a furlough. A week’s leave. You came back before he died, but that’s when you arranged it all, wasn’t it? When Jeremy saw you in Houston.”  
Artie closed his eyes again, suddenly feeling tired. “I already told you I was there, and that I arranged it. What does it matter when?” he said dully.  
“It matters!” Jim insisted. “Because I realized later that you could’ve killed Loveless many times before that. I think you must’ve wanted to, but you didn’t. I think I know why you finally did it then. That was just weeks after Loveless infected me. Gave me that plague he was developing. Remember?”  
***************************************************************************  
As if Artie could forget.  
Several months before they parted, they’d been in Dallas, Texas. Their train was parked on a seldom-used track in the station, out of the way, and Jim and Artie were in between Secret Service missions. They both tended to catch up on domestic chores when that happened. So one bright, sunny spring afternoon, Jim took their laundry into town.  
He never came back.  
Fortunately for Artie, when he canvassed the town a few hours later, looking for him, he found a witness to Jim’s abduction. A ten year old boy had been loitering in an alley near the laundry eating sugar candy, when he’d seen “this big, ugly giant in a black suit” dragging a much smaller man with brown hair out the back, and into a black coach. The smaller man “looked like he was asleep or drunk or something, and the giant was carrying him.” That was all the boy could tell him, but it was enough. Artie knew a description of Voltaire when he heard one; and if Voltaire was in town, that could only mean one thing.  
Dr. Miguelito Loveless had escaped from prison. Again. And he’d sent Voltaire to kidnap Jim, probably with the aid of some drug or gas that’d rendered Jim unconscious.  
Artie’s worst nightmare had happened again.  
It took him another long, exhausting day to trace Jim to an abandoned mine about ten miles out of town, where Dr. Loveless was hiding out. Unfortunately, by that time, Jim had already become his victim. When Artie finally slipped silently into a large room at the end of a long tunnel that was full of laboratory equipment and cages, Jim was lying in a cage in the corner, bound hand and foot, unconscious, his clothes soaked with sweat. He had a telltale puncture mark on his left arm, and strange red blotches on his face.  
One look told Artie that Dr. Loveless had used Jim as a test subject for one of his evil experiments. It filled Artie with a towering, helpless sense of fury.  
To make matters worse, as usual, Loveless was all too eager to boast about it. Eyes shining, he told Artie how he’d used Jim to test his newest invention: a plague meant to kill thousands, if not millions of people. “The beauty of it is that my plague will be carried by vermin; and won’t that be a fitting end to humanity?” Loveless laughed. “Vermin destroyed by vermin! It’s beautiful!”  
Artie had read all about the bubonic plague that’d devastated Europe for centuries. It’d been spread, and with frightening rapidity too, by rats. The idea of something like that being unleashed again was terrifying. The thought of Jim being its first victim was worse. But if Loveless said he could do it, Artie believed it. Hell, the shape Jim was in already was proof enough that his plague was probably deadly. He felt a glacial cold steal over him. An icy, calculating rage far more dangerous than his earlier heated anger. For the first time in his life, he felt capable of killing an unarmed man in cold blood. He’d already drawn his gun; now he pointed it right between Loveless’s eyes. “Give Jim the antidote for it. Now.”  
He knew there had to be one, because he knew Loveless. He’d never risk his own skin by playing around with a deadly substance, if he hadn’t also invented a cure for it.  
Loveless just smiled at him and shook his head, backing away. “Ah, ah ah! Let’s not be hasty, Mr. Gordon,” he chided, waving a finger at Artie as if he were a naughty child. “Voltaire!” he called smugly, expecting the giant to rescue him.  
But Artie had already taken care of that problem. Voltaire was safely stowed away in another room, tied and gagged. He advanced on Loveless until he towered over him. “He’s tied up. Literally,” he said grimly. “And if you don’t give Jim the cure, I swear I’ll kill you and Voltaire.”  
His threat to kill Voltaire was a lie. His threat to Loveless wasn’t. Repeated encounters with the crazed little doctor had increased both Artie’s respect for his genius, and his fear of the dwarf’s rage towards humanity. Artie had always showed Loveless mercy before, partly because Miguelito usually didn’t carry a gun, and Artie refused to shoot an unarmed opponent. But this time, Loveless had pushed him over the edge. Seeing Jim trussed up like that, infected with some terrible disease that might kill him slowly, was unbearable. Jim was unconscious already, probably dying because of the little madman. Rage iced Artie’s veins, freezing out reason and mercy. He’d kill Loveless to save Jim if he had to, and he let Loveless see that in his eyes.  
Miguelito’s eyes widened. His mouth thinned and he stomped his foot petulantly. “You’re not like Mr. West! You don’t play fair, Mr. Gordon!”  
“Now,” was all Artie said. He held the gun unwaveringly steady.  
Loveless fumed, but finally he strode over to a nearby lab table, picked up a needle and filled it with a clear serum. Then he picked up a set of keys and moved to Jim’s cage. But before opening it, he cast an uneasy glance at Artie over his shoulder. “How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?” he asked.  
Loveless would never have asked Jim such a thing; and normally, Artie wouldn’t have considered it either. Shooting an unarmed man was dishonorable. But in Loveless’ case, the idea had crossed Artie’s mind. Cold with the deadliest rage he’d ever felt, he considered it again. When he’d first met Loveless, he’d pitied him. Such a great mind, trapped in such a tiny, malformed body. Who wouldn’t pity such a man? He’d also recognized what a great scientist Loveless was. He was undeniably brilliant, and his work could’ve benefitted humanity immensely, if only his mind hadn’t been warped by rage at his condition.  
But Miguelito Loveless was dangerously insane. And over time, Artie’s feelings toward him had changed. Of all the enemies they’d met in their work as Secret Service agents, Dr. Loveless was the one Artie now feared the most. Miguelito was a demented genius, slippery as an eel, who broke out of every prison they put him in. But what secretly terrified Artie about him was his obsession with Jim. The little doctor was so fixated on his partner that every time he got out of prison, he tried to kill him; usually as part of a larger scheme which involved killing thousands. Because of that, Artie now considered Miguelito Loveless the most dangerous man he’d ever met. More than once in the past few years, he’d had nightmares in which Loveless had laughed at him while standing over Jim’s dead body. He never would’ve admitted it to Jim, but it’d crossed his mind more than once, when looking into Loveless’s crazed eyes, that the only way to deal with dogs that went mad was to shoot them.  
Still, at the moment, Loveless was doing as Artie had asked. He needed him to save Jim; and he owed him for that. “If you save Jim, I won’t kill you. You have my word,” he promised. He cocked his gun for added emphasis. “But I swear, I’ll kill you if you don’t.”  
Since Jim was out cold and couldn’t hear him, Artie felt no compunctions about threatening Loveless with death.  
Loveless frowned at him unhappily. “Very well. But first, before I give Mr. West my antidote, you must promise to give me my freedom once I save him.”  
Artie snorted. “Why should I make any more bargains with you? I’ve got the gun, and you’re going to prison. Again. Because now I know what to give Jim, even if I have to shoot you.” He pointed at the syringe Loveless held. He was bluffing. As long as Loveless cured Jim, he’d keep his part of the bargain and spare him; but the little doctor didn’t know that.  
Or did he? Loveless just grinned slyly at him. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll do that,” he said calmly. “I know you have scruples about shooting an unarmed man; and there is also the matter of my cure. You don’t know what is in this syringe, do you, Mr. Gordon?” Loveless taunted, holding it up. “If you shoot me, I might drop it. It could break, and you wouldn’t want that. Even if you could figure out what’s in it, as a scientist yourself, you must know that in medicine, dosages are critical. In small doses, many herbs are medicinal; but larger dosages of them can kill. I’m the only one who knows what ingredients my cure consists of, and therefore how much I can safely give Mr. West. And he doesn’t have much time left.” Loveless paused to give him an intense look. “No, Mr. Gordon. You won’t shoot me, because I’m the only one who can save your precious Mr. West.”  
Loveless’ gaze had hardened. Something about the way he’d said “your precious Mr. West” gave Artie chills. Was it possible that the little man knew of his feelings for Jim? Or did that phrase just sound slimy, coming from him? He couldn’t decide, but the thought that Loveless might actually know, and that he might shoot off his mouth about it to Jim in the future, made his hand tighten reflexively on his gun.  
But he forced himself not to move his trigger finger, because Loveless was right. Though he had the gun, Dr. Loveless still had the upper hand. He had the power of life or death over Jim, so Artie couldn’t risk shooting him. Loveless always had something up his sleeve, it seemed. Some way to turn every situation to his advantage. “All right. I promise,” he grated reluctantly. “You cure Jim, and I’ll let you go.”  
There would be hell to pay for that, he knew. Once Jim regained consciousness, he’d be furious with him for letting Loveless slip out of his hands. But Artie had no choice. He’d give his own life to cure Jim, if necessary. Dealing with his partner’s anger would be a small price to pay for Jim’s life.  
Loveless smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon. I knew you’d see reason.”  
Reason? Did Loveless even know how ironic that sounded, coming from him? Artie didn’t smile back. He didn’t think Loveless would’ve been smiling either, if he’d known that what Artie saw when he looked at him was a mad dog.  
After Loveless gave Jim the injection, Artie forced the little doctor to wait beside Jim until the ugly red splotches began to fade from his skin, and his breathing eased. Only then, once he was sure that Jim would recover, did he let Loveless slip away. He knew the little man would free Voltaire as well, but he didn’t try to stop him. Burdened as he was with his still unconscious partner, and without any extra horses, he didn’t have the means to get the giant to the local Sheriff anyway. He’d just tied him up to get him out of the way so that he could free Jim.  
He gave Loveless and Voltaire a few minutes to get away, then he carried Jim out of the mine on his back, and laid him gently on the ground a good distance away, near their horses. Jim showed no sign of regaining consciousness, so Artie slipped back into the mine. A short distance down its main tunnel, he set a few explosives with long fuses in critical areas. After checking them carefully, he lit them and ran back out, laying himself down on top of Jim’s unconscious body just to be sure, in case he’d miscalculated the force of the explosion. When it blew, it was satisfyingly loud and efficient, as Artie’s work tended to be. Once the choking cloud of dust subsided, he got to his feet again and walked closer, to check the results. The mine’s entrance had completely collapsed. No one would ever be able to get in there again, at least not without hauling out tons of rubble. Loveless’s lab had undoubtedly been destroyed as well, which was the most important thing. Artie wouldn’t have to worry that anyone would ever be exposed to his evil plague.  
Turning back, he tied their horses together, and hoisted Jim’s still limp form up on his own horse. Wrapping his arms around Jim so he wouldn’t fall off, he rode back to the train as fast as he dared.  
But he soon had cause to regret his generosity towards the mad scientist. Despite the injection Loveless had given him, a few hours after Loveless disappeared, Jim took a turn for the worse. By that time, luckily, Artie had got him safely back in his own bed on the Wanderer. But Jim’s temperature went dangerously high, and his breathing became labored again. Artie didn’t know if Loveless had lied to him and there was no cure, or if his so-called “cure” just didn’t work, or if it’d been given to Jim too late. He’d probably never know. It would’ve been like Loveless, though, to strike back at him by lying and injecting Jim with something that only provided Jim with some temporary relief, instead of being a cure.  
He cursed himself for a fool for trusting Miguelito Loveless an inch, even at gunpoint.  
He sent for the local doctor to look at Jim, but he was no help.  
“Without knowing what he’s been given, there’s nothing anyone can do but keep Mr. West cool and pray that it works its way through his system without killing him,” he said.  
Artie had surmised as much himself. “I’m not much of a praying man, but thank you, Doctor.”  
He saw the doctor out, then settled in to tend to Jim himself. For the next three days, he nursed Jim round the clock, only taking tiny catnaps when Jim fell into uneasy slumber. Jim’s temperature went so high, Artie was afraid that alone might kill him. He had the train crew buy ice from the locals, put Jim in a washtub and poured it over him to keep him from burning up. The ugly red blotches had disappeared from his skin, but Jim was delirious and at times, he still struggled to breathe. Artie could do little but keep him cool, force water down his throat and wipe the sweat off of him, and hope that whatever disease Loveless had injected Jim with wouldn’t prove fatal.  
It was during those seemingly endless days and nights that Artie finally knew what he had to do. He knew how dangerous it was, but he also knew that he had no choice.  
It was the fifth time that Dr. Miguelito Loveless had tried to kill James West. Strong as Jim was, he wasn’t a cat with nine lives. The next attempt might prove fatal, even if this one didn’t. And because Artie had had to make a devil’s bargain for Jim’s life, Loveless was now on the loose again. Which meant that sooner or later, as sure as the sun rose, he’d come after Jim again.  
The next time Loveless tried to kill Jim, it would be Artie’s responsibility. He’d let him escape. And if Jim died, it would be his fault. He couldn’t let that happen.  
With a heavy heart, he vowed to himself to put a stop to it, once and for all. Loveless must never get the chance to harm Jim again…  
***********************************************************************  
Artie blinked. All that had happened almost two years ago; but to him, it still felt like yesterday.  
To his surprise, he found that while he’d gotten lost in the past for a moment, he’d moved over to the door. He felt immensely tired all at once, like he’d aged twenty years in the last half hour. He leaned his weary head against it, flattening his forearms and hands against it to hold him up. Incredibly, Jim was still talking to him. His voice was quiet, but Artie could hear it so clearly, he thought Jim might be leaning against the other side of the door himself.  
“Artie, are you listening? I think you finally decided that you had to kill Dr. Loveless for my sake. Because I’d never be safe, as long as he lived. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Artie?”  
Artie heaved a sigh. He didn’t know why he was still here listening to Jim, but somehow, he was. Amazingly though, Jim didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded – well, almost sad, Artie noted with some surprise. He was calling him “Artie” again, too. Somehow, it didn’t make him angry anymore. “Mr. Gordon” had never sounded right anyway, coming from Jim. But he still couldn’t admit that Jim was right. He’d held onto some of his secrets so tightly for so long, it’d become second nature to keep them. Even now, he couldn’t let this one go.  
“For the last time -- no!” he repeated, rolling his head against the door in negation. “I already told you what happened. Now just go!” The wood was cold, and felt curiously soothing against his heated skin. But his denial didn’t sound convincing, and he feared it was too late.  
He heard a muffled curse on the other side of the door. “Damn it, Artie!” Then Jim fell silent for a minute.  
He knew better than to think Jim had given up, though. He could almost hear him thinking, right through the door.  
“All right,” Jim said slowly, at last. “I’ll make you a deal, Artie. You keep asking me why I came. Let me back in and I’ll tell you.”  
Artie snorted. “No thanks. I don’t care anymore.” He knew it sounded petulant, even childish. But he’d already given Jim several chances to tell him, and Jim hadn’t. He told himself that it was too late now. Jim had wasted his chance. Besides, letting him back in would be too dangerous. Better for both of them if Jim just left.  
“Damn it, Artie!” The door suddenly vibrated from a blow. Artie smiled wryly to himself. He’d known that was coming. Jim had never been a patient man.  
Jim drew a breath so harsh, Artie could hear it. “I swear, I won’t ask you any more questions. I’ll tell you why I came, then I’ll go, and you’ll never have to see me again. I swear! Just open the door, Artie!” Jim said. “Please!”  
Jim had said ‘please’. Amazing, Artie thought distantly. Jim was actually pleading with him, in a quiet, yet nearly frantic tone Artie had never heard him use before. It was doubly surprising, because he knew Jim could’ve just kicked the door down if he’d wanted to. That thought led to another: Jim must’ve let Artie throw him out just now, as well. There was no way he could’ve overpowered Jim.  
So. Jim had allowed himself to be thrown out, and now he wasn’t trying to force his way back in. Instead, he was asking, almost begging to be allowed to talk to him. Why? It was mystifying. What could be so important, that Jim would show such uncharacteristic restraint? And if it was so important, why hadn’t just he told Artie when he had the chance? Artie closed his eyes. It was baffling all right, but he still couldn’t let Jim in again. Jim was far too smart, and it was bad enough that he’d figured out why he’d had Loveless killed. That could lead Jim, all too easily, to figuring out the biggest secret he’d kept from him all these years.  
“I don’t care why you came,” he lied again. “Just go.”  
“No. Not until I tell you why.”  
Artie stifled a groan. He knew that tone. Jim wasn’t a patient man, but he was incredibly stubborn. When he dug in his heels like this, no force on Earth could budge him. Jim would camp in front of his dressing room door till doomsday, if Artie didn’t let him back in.  
Artie tried to push his weariness aside so he could consider the problem. His dressing room had no windows. If it had, he’d’ve happily climbed out of one. But there was no way out except through the door. As long as Jim was outside it, he was trapped here as well. He’d already tried everything he could think of to make him leave: reason, anger, even force. He’d been cold to Jim, insisted that there was no truth to what Jim was saying; and when that failed, he’d even thrown him out. None of it had worked. Jim was still here, insisting that he wouldn’t leave unless Artie let him say whatever it was he’d come to say.  
Of course, Jim had also ignored all of Artie’s previous requests to explain his presence until Artie got angry enough to throw him out, he thought, exasperated. Then Jim couldn’t wait to tell him. The perverse bastard, Artie thought resentfully.  
Still, he was left with very few options. He could either let Jim back in, get into a brawl with him that he might lose, or shoot him.  
Lucky for Jim, he thought darkly, I don’t keep a gun in my dressing room.  
He sighed. He was tired, hungry and cold, and he wanted a drink. He couldn’t get fed, warm or watered while Jim was blocking his door. And Jim had promised to speak his piece, whatever it was, and then leave without any more painful questions if he just let him back in. There was really only one thing he could do.  
“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll give you two minutes, West. Then I want you gone.”  
“Okay. Thanks, Artie.”  
He opened the door reluctantly, and walked away while Jim came in. When he’d put some distance between them, he turned around again.  
Jim had shut the door, and was watching him the same disturbing intensity he’d shown before. But he still wasn’t talking.  
“Two minutes!” Artie growled, far past the end of his patience.  
Jim swallowed, then stepped closer. “I still think what you did was wrong,” he began.  
Artie’s face darkened with anger. He’d had a bellyful of Jim’s condemnation already. He wasn’t going to listen to any more of it. “That’s it! One more word,” he snarled, “and I’ll—”  
Jim cut him off. “But I came here to tell you, I understand now. I understand why you did it. Why you had Dr. Loveless killed.”  
Artie’s breath caught in his throat, his anger melting away, replaced by astonishment. “What?” he said faintly.  
Jim cut him off. “After you left, I had time to think. I finally realized that the timing of Dr. Loveless’s death meant something. You did it to protect me,” he repeated, looking a little pale himself. “Because Loveless was on the loose again. You knew he’d come after me again – and I almost died, that last time. So you gave up everything to save me, even your honor. And I told you to get the hell away from me.” There was no mistaking the guilt in Jim’s voice, in his eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand why you—” Jim swallowed hard, and shook his head. “But I finally figured it out. Maybe you were wrong, but I was wrong too, Artemus, and I’m sorry.”  
The hush that followed Jim’s startling words was so deep, Artie felt like he was drowning in it. He blinked, too stunned to say anything. That was one of the longest speeches Jim had ever made to him; and one of the most emotional, as well. His heart beat so hard that it shook him, so loudly that it seemed like Jim must be able to hear it. He’d never thought Jim would say that he was wrong about this. Still, he couldn’t take comfort in it, even so. Because it meant that Jim might know all of it. Not just that Artie had done it for him, but why. He might’ve figured out Artie’s deepest secret. Yet there was no disgust on Jim’s face. Jim was staring at him all right, and his body was strung tight as a drawn bow – but Artie could’ve sworn that there was no censure in his eyes.  
How was that possible? If Jim knew he’d had Loveless killed for his sake, how could he not know why? But if he knew, why was Jim still here? Why had he come here at all?  
Artie’s head hurt, just trying to unravel the coil. Christ. He’d left Jim over a year ago, he’d come west, settled in Denver and gone back to acting. He’d tried to start a new life, one that didn’t include Jim. How could Jim still be hurting and confusing him like this?  
“Artie--” Jim stepped forward again, closing the distance Artie had put between them. “You did it because you love me,” he said, his voice low, his gaze riveted on Artie. “I understand that, too.”  
Christ, Artie thought, terrified. Jim no doubt thought those words would comfort him. The exact opposite was true. If Jim knew that much, then surely he understood everything. He understood Artie, in a way Artie had never wanted him to.  
Staggered, Artie closed his eyes and turned away. It really was all over. Until that instant, he hadn’t realized that some tiny part of him had hoped that somehow, someday, they might reconcile. Jim’s words blew that spark of hope out, like a snuffed candle flame. If Jim knew that he was an invert, then there was nothing left to say.  
After a moment, he realized that for some strange reason, Jim hadn’t left yet.  
“Well. You spoke your piece,” he grated at last. “Now you can go.”  
“No. Not all of it,” Jim said.  
Artie opened his eyes again, but the fight had gone out of him. He felt tired and old. “For Christ’s sake, Jim—”  
Jim touched his arm. Artie tried to shake him off, but suddenly Jim was there in front of him. Artie couldn’t understand why he didn’t just leave. Get the hell out.  
“Wait! I haven’t told you the most important thing yet,” Jim insisted.  
Artie swallowed. It wasn’t easy, when his mouth tasted like ashes. “I think you’ve said enough.” He turned away again.  
“No! Artie, listen, please.”  
There was that strange note in Jim’s voice again, that sounded curiously like pleading.  
Caught in spite of himself, Artie turned to face him again.  
“What I really came to tell you is… I forgive you, Artie,” Jim said softly. “I forgive you – if you can forgive me. And…”  
Artie just blinked at him silently. He’d had too many surprises. Jim had thrown too many impossible things at him in the past few minutes. He was beyond words, past even knowing how to react.  
Jim took a step closer. “I understand why you did it,” he said hoarsely, “because I realized… If it’d been you Loveless was after, I’d’ve done the same.”  
Artie just stared at him. Oh, now I must be dreaming, he thought.  
Jim came closer still. “Did you hear me, Artie?” he said fiercely. He took Artie’s arms in his hands. His blue eyes had gone dark, and he was practically vibrating with intensity. “I said, I’d’ve killed him for you, too.”  
Then Jim leaned forward and kissed him.  
Artie’s mind went blank. Jim’s forgiveness for the worst thing he’d ever done, his confession that he’d’ve done the same in his place, would’ve been enough to amaze him. But Jim’s kiss! It’d been so long since anyone had touched him tenderly that the soft press of Jim’s full lips filled him with a warm, almost unbearable rush of sweetness. Shock followed, roaring through him so strongly it whited out the world. When he came back to himself, Jim was still kissing him, and holding onto his arms. He pushed Jim away and staggered back, breathing hard, trying not to think of the softness of Jim’s mouth, the heat of his body.  
“What the--” he gasped, staring at his ex-partner. Of all the crazy things Jim had said and done over the years, and there had been many, this had to be the craziest. He couldn’t believe it, much less understand it. “What the hell was that?” he stuttered. “Some kind of joke?”  
Jim shook his head, his own breathing more than a little unsteady. But his eyes held Artie’s with utter seriousness. “It’s no joke, Artie. I mean it. All of it.”  
Artie’s head whirled. Too many shocks, coming at him too fast – and Jim’s kiss the biggest of them all. There was no mockery on his face, though, and no revulsion in his eyes. Jim had said he forgave him, and Artie could – almost -- believe that. But how could he believe his kiss? What did Jim – how --  
Jim took a step forward, but Artie stepped back again, warily keeping just out of reach. He was deeply shocked, but he hadn’t totally lost his wits. His jaw tightened until it felt like it might crack. “How can you? You’re not interested in men. You never have been.”  
Jim shrugged, but he looked faintly uncomfortable. “That’s not true. I’m interested in you.” The heat in his eyes was unmistakable.  
But Artie didn’t let that sway him. He couldn’t. Jim had never looked at him like that before, after all. “Since when?”  
Jim shrugged. “Since we met, I think.”  
Artie waved his hands in disbelief. “But – all those women!”  
Jim grimaced. “I like women. But I’ve always liked men better,” he grated.  
Artie’s mind raced. He didn’t know what to think. He was sharp-eyed, and he’d been watching for that; but he’d never seen Jim show any interest in men. How had Jim managed to keep it from him all those years? Either he was lying, or he was a much better actor than Artie had ever given him credit for.  
But why would Jim lie about something like that? Why would anyone label themselves an invert if it weren’t true? And if it were true, it would explain certain things. Why Jim had never settled down or gotten serious about any of his women, for one. The games he’d always played, the way he’d toyed with them. The fact that he’d always seemed amused but essentially untouched by them, no matter how beautiful they were. If Jim really preferred men…  
“When you left--”  
Artie raised an eyebrow. “That was your idea, not mine.”  
Jim looked away, embarrassed. “I know. What I’m trying to say is, all those things I said to you then -- I’m sorry. I realized it soon after you left.”  
Artie snorted, still skeptical. “Bit tardy with your apology then, aren’t you Jim? Where’ve you been for the past year and a half?”  
Jim shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. “I was angry for awhile. Then it took me awhile longer, to figure some other things out.”  
Those ‘other things’ being why Artie had really killed Loveless, obviously; and what that indicated about his feelings for Jim.  
“Then once I did, it took me awhile to find you.”  
Artie ran a hand through his hair. That was probably true. While he’d never tried to hide his identity, he hadn’t kept in touch with Jim once he left, either. It was hard to believe the rest of it though, even though Jim seemed serious. “Even if that’s true--”  
Jim set his jaw, anger narrowing his eyes. “It’s true. Have I ever lied to you?”  
“No, but – what makes you think I want that?”  
Jim just shrugged, and smiled a little. “If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t have had Loveless killed. And if you didn’t want me, you’d’ve punched me when I kissed you.”  
Artie almost smiled then. There was some logic to that, though Jim had always been far more fond of fisticuffs than he was. “Well. Maybe so. And maybe you just took me by surprise.”  
Jim shook his head, with a fond little smile. “Not you, Artie.”  
Artie ran a hand through his hair unsteadily, and looked away from Jim. His head was still whirling. It was a tremendous amount to take in, all at once. All his secrets had been found out, which had always been his worst nightmare. But it wasn’t the disaster he’d always feared it would be. Hell, it didn’t even seem to matter! Jim knew that he’d killed Loveless for his sake, not for the sake of humanity, as he’d told him. He’d also figured out what that meant: that Artie had done it out of love, to protect him. And that Artie’s love wasn’t the brotherly kind. But somehow, even though Jim now knew why, and that Artie preferred men, Jim didn’t hate him. He wasn’t even revolted by Artie’s desire for him. Jim was trying to convince him that he returned it! Though Artie had never seen him so much as look lustfully at another man, Jim claimed that he was interested in him. He’d even -- God help them both -- kissed him to prove it.  
Either he’d never known Jim as well as he thought he had, or he was a complete idiot, Artie thought. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.  
He rather thought he was more inclined to laugh. But he was afraid if he got started, he might not be able to stop. He was starting to feel giddy with hope. Still, all this seemed impossible, after he’d spent more than a year feeling desperately lonely. It was like a flood after a long season of drought. Or being given everything he’d ever wanted, out of a clear blue sky. It was like a dream.  
How could he ever be this lucky?  
“Too much?” Jim hazarded, as if he’d read his mind.  
Artie nodded wordlessly.  
Jim smiled at him. Widely, like he used to, with laughter shining in his eyes. Then he stepped closer. This time, Artie let him come, mesmerized in spite of himself by the warmth in Jim’s eyes. “Let me make it simple. Let me kiss you again.”  
Artie caught his breath. He wanted that -- God, how he wanted it. Jim was so beautiful. Standing there in Artie’s cold, slightly shabby dressing room, he shone like the sun. Jim was his best friend, the man he’d ridden through danger and fire and death with. He was the one person Artie would do anything for – even have a man killed. Jim was everything to him. Artie had been cold for almost two years without him.  
But Jim’s kisses were hardly simple. He wanted to believe him, but wasn’t sure he should risk being talked into it by Jim’s kiss. He’d seen Jim kiss a whole lot of women and convince them of pretty much anything he wanted, over the years. Jim was incredibly skilled at using his handsome face, lush mouth and muscular body to get what he wanted. Artie didn’t want to be duped. He didn’t think he could bear it, after so long.  
So what did Jim want? Was Jim playing him for a fool, or did he mean it?  
Why would Jim lie about a thing like this? he asked himself. He didn’t know. But Jim had cursed him, then sent him away, and never come to see him in all the time that’d passed since then. It was difficult to reconcile that with his behavior now. Jim admitted, he’d been angry at him for awhile. While Artie had already known that, he’d never expected that Jim would not only get over his anger, but come to apologize and actually try to seduce him, as well. It seemed far too good to be true. He’d grown almost resigned to thinking Jim hated him.  
He wondered if he should pinch himself. Maybe he was dreaming, or he’d lost his mind. He had been drinking a lot lately. Maybe he’d actually gone home like he’d meant to, and drunk too much, and Jim’s surprise visit and stunning revelations were all just an alcohol-induced hallucination. Artie rubbed his forehead, trying to decide what to do.  
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asked finally, watching Jim closely.  
Jim quirked an ironic half smile at him. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”  
“Touché,” Artie said ruefully. Jim had probably been as afraid of letting his true nature show as Artie was. They hung men for their kind of desire in lots of states; and it could rip a friendship to pieces if revealed to the wrong man. But once Jim had figured out that he’d had Loveless killed to protect him, he must’ve also realized that it was safe to show his true nature to Artie, because he felt the same.  
Artie thought how strange it was, that a murder had torn them apart; but now it had also brought them back together.  
Jim stepped closer still, his smile disappearing. So close that Artie could see the hunger in his eyes, so close he could almost feel the heat of his body. “I want to kiss you, Artie,” he said hoarsely. “Let me...”  
No. Not a murder, Artie thought. That wasn’t why Jim was here, or why he’d come here to find him.  
Finally, with Jim’s gorgeous eyes locked on his, Artie realized what had been bothering him about Jim. What he’d glimpsed in the mirror earlier, the change he’d sensed in Jim. He’d dropped his mask, his cool air of confidence, and for the first time, Artie could see naked need on Jim’s face. Need so deep, it looked almost like desperation.  
Artie had always assumed he was the only one paying the price for their separation. He’d thought that since it’d been Jim’s idea, Jim had never regretted it. He’d always thought that Jim had probably been happier without him. On nights when he’d been particularly disgusted with himself, he’d even imagined Jim entertaining bevies of beauties on the Wanderer in his absence. He’d even wondered if Jim had maybe bedded some in the room that used to be his.  
Judging by the look on Jim’s face, he’d been wrong. Jim had evidently been lonely too, since they’d parted. Artie remembered how Jim always looked when he was seducing women; amused, untouched, in complete control--even a little predatory. He didn’t look amused or in control now. In fact, the only time he’d ever seen Jim so worked up, had been the day they’d fought so viciously over Loveless’s death. And then, Jim had been furious.  
He wasn’t angry now. Jim was staring at him as if Artie’s rejection would crush him, as if he needed Artie like he needed air to breathe; and that was something Artie had never imagined. Not in his wildest dreams.  
That, more than anything else, finally convinced him that Jim was sincere.  
Artie wondered why he’d hesitated so long. Jim was asking, almost begging, to be allowed to kiss him; and who would be fool enough to say no to such a splendid man? It wasn’t like he was any great prize, Artie thought wryly. Silver at his temples, crow’s feet around his eyes… Oh, he was clever enough, but he’d never been as handsome as Jim. And though he was doing well enough for himself, the odds were, he’d never be rich or famous either. Mostly because he didn’t care to be, but still. Why in the world would Jim come here, why would he say or do any of this, if he didn’t mean it? What could he possibly hope to gain, except for the heart of an aging actor?  
Artie smiled to himself a little ruefully. No need to ask. Jim had always had that.  
Then he felt a little guilty. Jim had been asking tonight, in various ways, but he’d kept saying ‘No.’ Jim had probably come a long way to tell him he was sorry, to try to make things right; and he hadn’t made it easy for him. He’d been cold, rude and unkind. He hadn’t accepted Jim’s apology, he’d thrown him out and almost refused to listen to his explanation for why he’d come, as well. If Jim hadn’t been so stubbornly insistent on not leaving without telling him what he wanted to say, he’d never have even known that Jim wanted him. Remembering the way Jim had been staring at him since he arrived, Artie felt more than a little foolish. He’d been so angry, so off-kilter from the welter of emotions Jim aroused in him, he’d missed the most obvious signs. He’d almost missed out on Jim.  
He closed his eyes again, this time because he was shamed by a hot rush of tears. I missed you too, James my boy. So much.  
“Yes,” he whispered. “All right, you can—”  
Jim didn’t wait to be asked twice. Before Artie could even finish his sentence, Jim stepped forward, took his head in his hands gently, and kissed him.  
Artie shivered from head to toe, just from that. From the warm, tender touch of Jim’s mouth on his. Artie wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but Jim’s kisses were a surprise. Jim kissed him with such care, such gentleness, it amazed him. He’d seen Jim kiss plenty of women over the years, but he’d never seen him kiss anyone like this -- with such tenderness, such fondness. Jim took his time, pressing soft, sweet kisses into the sides of Artie’s mouth, his cheeks, sliding his fingers through his dark curls. Jim’s rough hands were achingly gentle, and he lavished kisses and caresses on Artie, without asking for more.  
Artie didn’t ask for more himself. Not for some time. He just put his hands on Jim’s shoulders and let Jim do as he pleased, soaking up his smiles, his tender kisses like the starving, lonely man he was. No, that he had been. Loneliness had fled at Jim’s first kiss. Artie felt lighter in Jim’s hands, almost giddy, as if he’d shed the weight of his guilt and unhappiness at last.  
Jim had forgiven him. Jim wanted him, he’d even implied that he might love him. Just hearing that had made Artie’s head whirl; but Jim’s kisses made him even dizzier. Jim seemed intent on proving what he’d said with every touch, every murmur, with the almost reverent way his lips met Artie’s, and his hands moved through Artie’s hair. Artie had never expected what Jim’s gentleness implied -- had never expected to gain entry to Jim’s fiercely guarded heart -- and it meant more than he could ever say. He felt like he was floating.  
“James my boy,” he murmured softly, dreamily, in between kisses.  
Jim lifted his head to stare into Artie’s eyes. The desperation on his face had eased, and melted into fondness. Now it deepened into a hunger that lit his pale blue eyes like a flame. “Never thought I’d hear you say that again.” He flung himself against Artie, burying his head in Artie’s shoulder, holding on tight. “Artie,” he whispered fiercely. “God, Artie, I thought I’d lost you. I missed you so much!” His hands dug into Artie’s back, and he held him so tightly that Artie’s ribs creaked.  
Artie held on just as tight. Wrapped up in Jim’s fervent embrace, he no longer felt the chill of his dressing room. He felt blissfully warm and happy, for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. More than that, he felt a sense of wonder. Unlikely though it was, he had been given everything he’d ever wanted. He didn’t intend to take the gift for granted. He kissed the top of Jim’s head tenderly. “Jim, Jim. I’m sorry I left you,” he murmured.  
Jim lifted his head at that. “That was my fault. Not yours. Still…” He was smiling, but he narrowed his eyes a little. “Don’t ever do it again, Artemus.”  
Artie’s heart swelled. He thought he knew what Jim was really saying, what he’d been saying all along, with his tender kisses. He wanted them to stay together. It was all Artie had ever wanted, and never thought he could have. So it was a moment before he could answer. Then he smiled widely. “I won’t, James. I promise.”  
“Good,” Jim smiled, heat kindling in his eyes. “Now… Enough talking,” he growled. He tilted his head up and kissed Artie again. Harder that time, gentleness giving way to passion.  
Artie didn’t need to be asked twice, either. When Jim’s lips parted, he tilted his head and traced them with his tongue. Jim made a small, eager sound, and Artie thrust his tongue into Jim’s mouth, with all the pent-up hunger of the years he’d spent dreaming of this.  
It felt so good. So good, Artie could hardly believe it. Jim’s warm, muscular body against his, Jim’s mouth and tongue open and eager, Jim’s strong arms and clean, masculine smell winding around him. Jim smelled like spring grass and open prairie, like horses and sweat and home. For the first time in a very long time, lust stirred Artie’s whole body in a dizzying rush. His heart started to pound as their tongues entwined and Jim moaned, surging against him. Artie made a strangled sound deep in his throat, and kissed Jim even harder. They both lost control. Pushing and straining together, each trying to get closer to the other, to crawl inside his skin, they stumbled blindly about the room, kissing passionately.  
Finally, Artie pushed Jim up against the wall by the door, pinning him with his body so they were pressed together from chest to knees. “I want you,” he breathed, in between hot kisses.  
“Yeah,” was all Jim said, in a breathy growl.  
It was all Artie needed to hear.  
He held Jim fast there, plundering his mouth. Jim didn’t fight him. He didn’t even object when Artie pulled his greatcoat off and let it slide to the floor. Jim seemed perfectly willing to let Artie do whatever he liked to him, for as long as he liked. He’d take control of the kiss for a moment, then trade it back to Artie. They clung together, exploring each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s breath as the heat between them grew. Artie didn’t stop for a long time. Jim felt wonderful in his arms, lithe, muscular and radiating heat, and Artie had years of hunger to make up for. When he finally lifted his head to look at Jim, they were both hard and breathless. Jim’s mouth was shiny, red and bruised from the force of his kisses. His blue eyes were bright, almost feverish with desire, and his chest was heaving.  
Some of my finest work, Artie thought, immensely pleased.  
He smiled at Jim. “Beautiful.” It was no exaggeration. Jim was gorgeous anyway, but with his thick hair tousled from Artie’s hands and his mouth still wet from his kisses, Jim was the handsomest thing Artie had ever seen. And he’d never been a man to let beauty go unremarked.  
Jim frowned at him a little, though. “I’m not a girl, Artie,” he growled as he nipped at Artie’s lower lip.  
Artie just grinned at him. Jim had never been more than half tamed, at best. “I noticed. But you are beautiful, James.” Personally, he’d always appreciated Jim’s wildness, too.  
Predictably, Jim opened his mouth to protest again.  
Artie interrupted with another kiss. “And if you were a girl, I’d never do this…” He dipped his head to kiss Jim’s neck, scraping it lightly with his teeth. Jim gasped and threw his head back, baring more of his neck to Artie’s hungry mouth. Artie grinned against the curve of Jim’s throat, nipping and sucking until Jim shivered.  
Taking advantage of Jim’s distraction, Artie turned them both so that he was now the one with his back against the wall. Then he pushed his thigh in between Jim’s legs. He could feel Jim’s cock like a heated iron bar against him as he sucked hotly at Jim’s neck. He set to work untying Jim’s silk cravat, while he kissed him. “Wait,” Jim whispered, his voice sounding thick, almost drugged.  
Artie wanted to, but he couldn’t. He kissed Jim deeply, cutting off his protest. He’d been so cold, so dead inside for so long, but now that Jim was warming him from the inside out, he just wanted more. He pulled Jim’s cravat off with a whisper of silk, and dropped it on the floor near his fancy coat. Then he rocked him back and forth a little, rubbing Jim’s cock against his thigh.  
“Mmm…” Jim moaned at the sensation, panting and throwing his head back, almost writhing in Artie’s embrace. He was so responsive, so openly sensual that Artie almost came just from looking at him. He bent his head to lick and bite at the edge of Jim’s collarbone, which he’d just bared, and Jim shuddered. But when he slid his hand down between them to caress Jim’s cock through his pants, Jim groaned and caught his wrist. “Jesus, Artie! Don’t,” he panted. “You’ll make me spend.”  
Artie grinned at him, totally unrepentant. “That’s the idea, James.”  
Jim shook his head. “Not so fast.”  
Artie paused, frowning in confusion.  
Letting go of Artie’s wrist, Jim leaned forward to kiss his neck, sucking it until it was Artie’s turn to moan. Then he caught Artie’s head in his hands and stared intently into his eyes. “I want to be in your bed,” he said hoarsely. Jim’s face was flushed, his blue eyes glittering, and there was something darkly possessive in his voice, that raised every hair on the back of Artie’s neck. It also aroused him almost unbearably.  
Jesus, Artie thought. If we do this in a bed, it may kill me. His heart was already pounding, his whole body aching with lust. And after what Jim had just said, he knew there was no way he could get to his rooms right now. They were a fifteen minute walk from the opera house. He couldn’t bear to stop, nor could he control himself that long. If Jim tried to go outside now, Artie was afraid he might just molest him in public. “I’d like that too, but it’s too far. Next time,” he promised breathlessly.  
To Artie’s great relief, Jim nodded, then smiled brilliantly. “Next time,” he echoed, as delighted as if Artie had given him a gift. Artie realized with a pang that Jim must not have been sure there’d be a next time.  
But he had no time to mull that over, because Jim pulled his head down for another bruising, scorchingly hot kiss. Artie felt Jim’s hands moving over his shoulders while their tongues slid together, then his robe hit the floor. He didn’t feel chilled, though. Jim was wrapped around him tightly, and kissing him so deeply that it was Artie’s turn to moan with delight.  
Jim made a hungry sound deep in his throat, and Artie’s cock throbbed. He’d never gotten so hard, so fast. Jim started to move, his hips rocking forward lazily, instinctively as they kissed. Artie reached down and put a hand to the small of Jim’s back, pulling their hips even tighter together. Jim’s pants were so tight, he couldn’t get his hand down them, so he just cupped his buttocks through the material. They were so muscular, Artie could feel them flex every time Jim rocked forward. It felt so good that he moaned into Jim’s mouth.  
Suddenly, Artie couldn’t wait anymore. He thrust against Jim hard and fast, kissing him deeply while he stroked and squeezed his ass. Jim bucked against him wildly for a moment. Then he suddenly arched, throwing his head back and shuddering hard. Jim’s eyes were closed, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks, every vein in his neck corded with tension. Artie could’ve sworn that for a moment, he even stopped breathing. He looked utterly wild, and breathtakingly beautiful.  
“Jesus,” Artie whispered in awe.  
That was all it took. Jim spent, sagging forward against Artie, gasping and shaking. At the first hot gust of Jim’s shaky breath against his neck, Artie spent too, his cock throbbing with almost painful force. It went on for some time, while he tried to hold Jim up with shaking hands.  
They slid down to the floor in the end, breathless, their legs still quivering. A long time later, when Artie could finally breathe again, he turned his head to look at Jim.  
“What?”  
“Well. I haven’t spent in my pants like that since…” Artie shifted, a little uncomfortable, smiling ruefully. “Well, not for many years.”  
Jim just chuckled. “Me either. C’mere,” he said. He pulled Artie down onto his coat, which Artie had carelessly tossed on the floor earlier.  
“Jim, your coat!” Artie protested, knowing it was expensive.  
Jim just laughed, and settled him on it on his back. Then he slipped his arms around Artie and laid his head on his chest with a satisfied sigh.  
Artie shook his head, bemused. “Wild child,” he said, but his chiding was spoiled by the fondness in his voice.  
They were quiet for a time, and Artie luxuriated in the warm, sweet weight of Jim in his arms. He ran his hands gently through Jim’s thick hair. His touch was a bit tentative at first. He wasn’t sure how much license Jim would grant him, even now, to pet him as he’d always longed to do. Jim had never been sentimental. But to his delight, Jim seemed to approve. He didn’t pull away, he just sighed a little. “S’nice, Artie,” he murmured.  
Artie closed his eyes, or he would’ve cried then. Nice wasn’t the word for it. He had no idea how this had happened. He only knew that if he had anything to say about it, he’d never give Jim up again.  
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” The question came out before Artie thought. He did want to know, but despite how relaxed and pleased Jim seemed to be, he wasn’t sure that he’d answer. Jim had never been much of a talker.  
But Jim surprised him yet again. “What? That I like men?” He sounded drowsy and amused. “I did –”  
“No! Why you came. I knew there was a reason, and I kept asking, but –”  
Jim let out a breath. “It wasn’t easy to tell Mr. Gordon something that personal,” he said wryly. Artie winced, remembering his own coldness. He felt Jim shrug. “And I was – I thought you wouldn’t listen. That you might not want to hear it.”  
He heard what Jim wasn’t saying. He’d been afraid. The great James West, fearless Secret Service agent and hero, had been afraid that Artie might still be angry, and that he’d refuse him.  
“Silly,” Artie said mildly. Jim had no way of knowing, but he’d dreamed about going back to him, about somehow earning his forgiveness. That alone had seemed like a miracle beyond his reach. Once they were separated, he’d never dared to dream of this.  
“Well…you did say you had to leave because you were meeting friends,” Jim said, a trace of resentment creeping into his voice. “I thought maybe--”  
Artie smiled wryly. “No. There’s no one. Not like that, anyway. And no one’s waiting for me.” He wondered how Jim would react to his little falsehood.  
Jim didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he felt Jim smile against his chest. A big, wide, cat’s-got-the-canary type of satisfied smile. “Good.”  
Artie smiled to himself at Jim’s possessiveness. Later, he promised himself he’d tell Jim all about Marie’s Christmas invitation, though. He couldn’t have Jim thinking he’d been here all this time without charming anyone, after all. Jim would think he’d lost his touch.  
“Artie…”  
He could almost hear Jim thinking, as he stroked his hair tenderly. “What? Tell me.”  
“Well… it’s almost Christmas, y’know.” Jim’s voice was still slow, thick and fond, like honey in Artie’s ears.  
“I know. What of it?”  
Jim propped his chin up on Artie’s chest. He played with Artie’s dark curls while his blue eyes searched Artie’s. “I’d like to spend it with you. Okay?”  
Artie pretended to think it over. “Hmm. Maybe. I’ll check my calendar,” he teased.  
Jim grinned, and traced Artie’s lips gently with a finger. “You do that. Because if you’re free, I wanna take you out for Christmas dinner,” he said, his eyes still a little soft and dreamy with lassitude. Artie almost shivered. He’d wondered what kind of lover Jim would be for years. But the reality of it beat all of his imaginings. The intensity of Jim’s passion didn’t surprise him, thrilling though it was; but his tenderness did. Artie had never expected such gentleness, from such a hard man. He’d never seen it in Jim before, and the fact that Jim seemed to reserve it for him alone touched him more deeply than he had words to express.  
“I saw you play ‘Hamlet’ tonight,” Jim said, smiling. “You were wonderful. I wanna take you out to celebrate that, too.”  
Artie’s heart swelled. He’d been right – Jim had been in the audience earlier. The thought still amazed him.  
Jim bent his head to kiss him gently. “I’ll buy you turkey with all the trimmings, and the finest brandy they have, in the best restaurant in Denver,” he whispered, against Artie’s lips. “And Cherries Jubilee for dessert. Would you like that, Artie?”  
Artie almost choked. That was so much better than the lonely Christmas he’d been facing, he hardly knew what to say. And on top of all that, Jim had remembered his favorite dessert… “I’d love that, James,” he said, when he found his voice again. “But don’t you have to go back to work?”  
Jim shook his head. “Did I forget to tell you? I quit the Secret Service, Artie.”  
Artie stared at him in disbelief. He’d thought Jim was done astonishing him. He should’ve known better. “You what?”  
Jim shrugged, and laid his head down again. He pressed a little kiss into the bare skin of Artie’s chest, where it peeked through the opened collar of his shirt. Artie felt it, right down to his toes. “It was time. I sent a telegram to Col. Richmond and another to President Grant with my resignation, before I left. It wasn’t the same without you, and I’d had enough. Once I found out where you were, I wanted to come and find you. Set things right.”  
“You did. And I’m glad you did, Jim.” Artie stroked Jim’s hair again, feeling a rush of happiness. But then he caught himself, wondering if he’d gotten things wrong again. The fact that Jim had left the Service and asked to spend Christmas with him, didn’t mean that Jim planned to stay. He’d never been a faithful lover. Maybe he’d just been joking, when he’d made Artie promise not to leave him again. Maybe he’d misinterpreted other things Jim had said, too. Heard an “I love you” in them, because it was what he most wanted to hear. He’d only just realized that he’d gotten some really important things about Jim completely wrong, for a number of years. Granted, that wasn’t entirely his fault, since Jim had hidden them from him. Still, it was unsettling; and he didn’t mean to make that same mistake again. “So. What are you going to do now, then?” he asked carefully.  
Jim lifted his head again, propping his chin up on Artie’s chest so he could look up at him. “I thought I’d stay with you, Artie,” he said simply, searching Artie’s eyes. “From here on in. If that’s what you want, too.”  
Artie beamed, joy spreading through him, melting the last lingering traces of the coldness that had settled around his heart when they’d parted. “I think I could be persuaded to put up with you,” he teased.  
Then he remembered how badly he’d treated Jim at first. And how lucky he was that Jim hadn’t just left without ever telling him how he felt. He pulled Jim down and held him tightly, shivering a little at how close he’d come to losing him a second time.  
“What’s the matter, Artie?” Jim sounded puzzled.  
When he could speak again, Artie shook his head. “Nothing. I’m glad you came. And I want you to stay,” he whispered. “I think I missed you too, James,” he teased lightly. He kissed the top of his head again, loving the silky feel of Jim’s hair against his lips. “I may have missed you a very great deal.”  
He felt the curve of Jim’s smile against his chest again. “’You think? You may have’?” he echoed.  
Artie smiled. “Well. You are a lot of trouble, y’know.”  
Jim just laughed.  
“I mean it!” Artie insisted. “No one’s tried to kill me since I left you.”  
Jim grinned. “Is that right?”  
“Well. There was this one gambler in Abilene, but he was just a sore loser. And such a terrible shot, it really didn’t count,” Artie shrugged. “So really, no one.”  
Jim chuckled, and the vibration of his laughter buzzed pleasantly in Artie’s chest.  
But Artie wasn’t through teasing Jim yet. “I found it rather refreshing,” he said airily.  
Jim lifted his head again, his eyes dancing. “Admit it. You were bored without me!”  
Artie rolled his eyes. “Hardly!” he sniffed. “It was wonderful! No more bullet holes in my suits. No more long, grueling hours in the saddle. I haven’t been drugged, kidnapped or shot in almost two years!”  
Jim grinned down at him. “It must’ve been pure hell.”  
Artie grimaced. “Oh, it was!”  
They both burst out laughing.  
When they finally stopped, Jim smiled down into Artie’s eyes. “I know it’s a little early, but … Merry Christmas, Artemus,” he smiled, kissing him soundly.  
“Merry Christmas, Jim,” Artie smiled back, when Jim finally let him up for air again.  
Jim rolled off Artie suddenly, and pulled him to his feet.  
“What? Where’re you going?” Artie frowned.  
“We,” Jim corrected. “We’re going to your place. I think it’s about time you show me where you live. Don’t you?”  
Artie blinked at him, a bit surprised at Jim’s eagerness to see his place. “Okay.”  
Jim leaned up to murmur in his ear. “Well, you did promise me we could do it in your bed next time.”  
Artie grinned in delight. Now he understood Jim’s urgency. “That I did, James my boy! That I did. And I guess there’s no time like the present, is there?”  
It was Jim’s turn then, to pull Artie towards the door. “I like the way you think, Mr. Gordon,” he smiled.  
****************************************************************

“Love gave the wound which, while I breathe, will bleede” is a line from a poem by Sir Walter Raleigh


End file.
